Career Advancement 2: Downsizing
by Two Ladies of Quality
Summary: Alliances change, relationships shift. Can the Scoobies cope with the way things have changed?
1. Default Chapter

It begins where these sorts of things always do--in the night time, with a creature at home in the shadows meditating on passion and obsession and madness and the warm seductions of the dark. Or, to be less Bulwer-Littonish, with a vampire lurking outside the home of his target, wondering what it would take to lure said target out to play.  
  
Spike was well aware of his tendency towards overwrought melodrama, especially when he had too much time on his hands. Sometimes, though, it was amusing to paint extravagant mental pictures. Like Buffy suddenly turning to him and crying, "You're everything I want in a man! You're gorgeous, strong, dangerous. You'll help me look after my family, and I bet you're a better lay than Angel, too."  
  
OK, so he had a rich fantasy life. Sue him.  
  
Then there were the other pictures: the look in Xander Harris' eyes changing from deep distrust to cautious intrigue. Something tragic happening to those wretched clothes of his. A sidelong glance that told of thoughtfulness instead of disgust.  
  
It could happen, and there were better odds of that happening than his Buffy-fantasy coming true. Which was why Spike was lounging on the roof of the building across the street from Harris' apartment, hoping that tonight Harris would forget to either close the curtains before his shower or not wear a towel in the privacy of his own home. It was too early in the evening to occupy the small balcony outside Harris' window. That was reserved for sleep-watching and sleep-whispering--which was coming along well, come to think of it. The boy twitched very pleasantly when Spike whispered to him out of the dark. Once there might even have been the return whisper of Spike's name. If only Spike had a way of finding out what Harris was dreaming of.  
  
He idly twisted the amber stud that pierced the top of his right ear. Time to poke Ripper about a permanent fix to the chip. One of the reasons for their LA trip was to check on surgeons, psychic and mundane. The mundane ones all heard what the Initiative doctor had said and were reluctant to second-guess someone with first-hand knowledge. The psychic surgeons were less pessimistic, but the ones willing to work on a vampire were all over on the sleazy side. Not that Spike really objected to sleaze, but if he paid someone he wanted them to stay bought, at least until he decided to kill them and get his money back.  
  
The best of the psychic surgeons all mentioned being under contract and that they'd need to get approval for independent work. When they mentioned the name Wolfram & Hart, Ripper had politely broken off talks and retreated. Something Buffy had learned from Angel made the ex-watcher think a little harder about getting involved with a demonic law firm. Still, if the price of getting dechipped was a bit of cooperation with an organization that apparently existed for the primary purpose of bothering Angel, Spike was willing to chat terms.  
  
From the apartment below him came the sound of the late TV news signing off. Spike straightened and stretched. Xander would be heading to bed soon, virtuously getting his sleep so he could be fresh for work in the morning. Depending on how many beers he'd downed while watching the news, he should be out cold in ten minutes.  
  
He easily dropped the two stories to the ground and sauntered across the street to Xander's building. The wind shifted, and he paused. Demon in the area. One of the big, dumb, break stuff up sort. No worries, so long as it found somewhere else to play--  
  
Wood smashed with happy crunching sounds somewhere nearby. Somewhere quite nearby, like in Xander's building, on Xander's floor.  
  
"I don't bloody well think so," Spike snarled, and began to run.  
  
Xander stared at the remains of his front door, then at the large, blue-green figure standing in the doorway. The tentacles on the creature's head coiled up tightly in what looked like chagrin.  
  
"I'm sorry," it--he?--said. "I don't know my own strength at times."  
  
"What?" Xander finally managed.  
  
"I didn't mean to announce myself quite so violently."  
  
"What?" That still covered useful ground, and he wasn't getting a good answer yet.  
  
The demon nodded. "Of course, I'm sorry, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Reinhart, and I'm here to face you in honorable single combat for the love of the fair Anyanka."  
  
And still the explanation makes no more sense than the questions. "Honorable . . ."  
  
Reinhart shrugged. "I understand your confusion. I was simply going to come here and rip out your pathetic human lungs for daring to consort with someone as fine and glorious as Anyanka, but she has told so many stories of your courage that I couldn't simply remove you as impertinent human scum. Anyanka believes you are worthy of her, and so I must prove myself even more worthy by destroying you honorably."  
  
"Destroy me . . ."  
  
Reinhart reached through the doorway and poked Xander lightly in the chest. He only staggered a little. "There, the challenge has been given. I await your convenience."  
  
OK, you've just been challenged to a duel to the death by a seven-foot-tall blue-green guy with muscles in his fingers that would make any beer can crusher proud. Quick, grasshopper, what do you do? Xander took a deep breath.  
  
"So. A duel."  
  
Reinhart smiled broadly. "Yes, honorable single combat."  
  
"Right." Xander felt his survival instincts--along with the memories of all those Three Musketeers movies--kick in. "If you're the challenger, that means I get the choice of weapons and time and location, right?"  
  
"Weapons?" Reinhart looked at his hand, then flexed his fingers. Claws popped out. "Why do we need weapons?" he asked in honest bafflement.  
  
Xander held up his own hands. "Humans don't come with claws."  
  
"You don't? How do you fight, then?"  
  
"We use weapons."  
  
"Oh. Well, then, a weapon is fair. I'll wait here while you fetch one."  
  
"That's OK, you leave me your number, and I'll get back to you as soon as I've found a weapon. I'd hate to make you wait."  
  
Reinhart beamed. "That's very considerate of you, but there's no bother. I had no other plans for tonight."  
  
Well, Xander definitely had plans other than dying. "We need, uh, witnesses, right? Let me call somebody." Like a Slayer or something.  
  
Reinhart sighed. "If you must. As beings of honor, though, the word of the survivor as to what happened should be sufficient."  
  
"You'd think, but standards are slipping everywhere. 'Scuse me a sec."  
  
As he started to turn, Xander thought he saw someone standing in the shadows down the hall. He was distracted, though, by Anya suddenly appearing behind him in the living room.  
  
"Reinhart, what are you doing?" she demanded.  
  
Reinhart hit his knees so hard the floor shook. "Fair Anyanka!"  
  
"Hmph. Halfrek said you were coming here to kill Xander. You can't do that, I won't let you." She smiled at Xander. "Hi, Xander."  
  
"Hi, honey."  
  
"I did not come here to kill your Xander," Reinhart explained.  
  
Anya relaxed. "Oh, good. Halfrek was talking so fast I must have misunderstood her."  
  
"I came here to challenge this human to honorable single combat in your name."  
  
She stared at him for several moments, then turned to Xander. "He did?"  
  
Xander nodded. "'Fraid so."  
  
"Men." She blinked and looked back at Rinehart. "For me?"  
  
"For you, Anyanka. You have an attachment to this human, and I cannot in honor woo you while he exists. Therefore I shall remove him from my path."  
  
Xander did not like the way Anya was fighting a smile. She shook herself out of it, though. "Well, I don't want you honorably single combatting my Xander. You'd smoosh him, and I like him unsmooshed."  
  
Reinhart sighed happily. "You are as kind-hearted as you are beautiful. However, the human has nobly accepted my challenge. I'd hate for you to be upset by our struggle, so perhaps you could go someplace more pleasant and await the survivor."  
  
Anya glared at Xander. "You accepted his challenge?"  
  
Xander tried very hard to keep up with events. "I didn't accept anything. He just showed up and I've been, well, maneuvering matters."  
  
Reinhart began to frown. "But, sir, you have established the weapons and the need for witnesses. Why are we deciding these things if you haven't accepted my challenge?"  
  
"Um . . ."  
  
Anya took Xander's arm. "Excuse us," she said to Reinhart, and she towed Xander into the bedroom.  
  
As soon as the bedroom door closed behind them, Xander looked round hopefully in case he'd left the cordless phone in here. "Damn, not here."  
  
Anya started pacing. "You accepted a challenge from Reinhart? Are you nuts?"  
  
"He was just going to rip out my lungs for being an impertinent human who doesn't deserve to be anywhere near you."  
  
"He said that?"  
  
"Dammit, Ahn, don't look so happy about that."  
  
She managed to lose the grin. "Sorry."  
  
"The only reason he decided on a duel was because all the stories you've been telling convinced him I'm honorable--for a human. What have you been telling them?"  
  
"Nothing but the truth. They wanted to know how I became a demon again. I told them how you saved my life. They were very impressed."  
  
Xander had to look away from the love and pride on Anya's face. Did they all sit around some break room somewhere, the vengeance demons, swapping tales of creative punishments and making plans for the weekend? Did demons get weekends?  
  
"So--is Reinhart a vengeance demon?"  
  
"No, he's an accountant."  
  
"There are demon accountants?"  
  
"You seem surprised."  
  
Xander shrugged it off. "We've got work to do here. Why don't you go distract Reinhart while I call Buffy."  
  
"Why Buffy?"  
  
"I've got a demon at my front door threatening to rip out my lungs. Of course I'm going to call in the professionals."  
  
"But--it's none of her business."  
  
"None of her business?"  
  
"You agreed to the duel. You can't drag the Slayer into it."  
  
Xander went over and put his hands on her shoulders. "Ahn, I'm not facing that guy in single combat. Him, big demon with claws. Me, squishy human."  
  
Anya nodded soberly. "Yes. Human. I keep forgetting for some reason." She frowned in thought for several moments. "Still, you accepted a duel with a demon. There are rules. Witnesses are one thing, but it would go against a lot of rules if you pulled the Slayer into demonic business."  
  
He gave her a reassuring smile. "Then they can just deal with the rule breaking." He went to the nightstand to check for the phone. "It's not like I care what demons think of me."  
  
Several seconds' silence went by. "Xander?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Does the not caring apply to all demons?"  
  
"Pretty much, why--"  
  
He turned and jumped. Anyanka, Patron of Scorned Women, gazed back at him, sad yellow eyes looking out of a heavily veined face. Tears grew in her eyes.  
  
"Say my name," she whispered.  
  
"Anya."  
  
She shook her head. "My real name."  
  
"Ah--Anyanka."  
  
"And I am?"  
  
That one was easy. "The woman I love."  
  
A smile flickered there and gone. "And what else?"  
  
He felt his stomach go into freefall. "A demon." She nodded sadly. "What I said, it doesn't apply to you--"  
  
"It should. Because that's what I am, a demon. Who sometimes looks like a woman. You gave that back to me. But part of you wishes you hadn't."  
  
A tear escaped, following the line of one of those blue veins. Anya wasn't supposed to cry. Demons weren't supposed to cry. Those faces weren't supposed to look so sad. Xander took a step towards her, but his sub-brain shrieked "Stay back! Demon!" He hesitated.  
  
She closed her eyes. "You hate looking at this face, don't you."  
  
"I'm sor--"  
  
"Don't, please. Right now I still love you. Don't make that change."  
  
Her human face flowed back, and Xander hurried to pull her into his arms. He chanted his apologies in his head, where vengeance demons couldn't hear. Anya wrapped her arms around his waist.  
  
"It was a lovely fantasy, wasn't it?" she said. "That somehow we might make this work? I'd hoped . . ."  
  
He rested his face on her hair. "Me, too."  
  
He leaned down to kiss her. Partway through the kiss, she let her face morph back into its demon form. He jumped, just a little, but didn't let her go. With this being good-bye and the last time, somehow he didn't mind so much.  
  
Anya pulled away first, and she briskly wiped the tears off her face, then off Xander's. "There is a way to get out of the duel. You tell Reinhart that you concede the point, and . . ."  
  
He nodded. "I let him have you."  
  
She drew herself up. "You let him have the chance to have me. This only gives him the opportunity to woo me. And I take a lot of wooing." Xander cocked his head knowingly at her. "Sometimes."  
  
"Will I still get to see you?" he asked wistfully.  
  
"We shouldn't have sex anymore." She sighed. "I will miss that."  
  
"I--actually wasn't thinking about sex."  
  
"Have you been sick?"  
  
"Ahn . . ." He swallowed hard. "I'm going to miss hearing you talk." She leaned against him, and he pretended he didn't hear her sniffing. He hoped she was pretending the same thing.  
  
"I'll still be at the Magic Box," she finally said. "If you ever need something magicky. Or I might need new shelves or something."  
  
"Or something."  
  
This time Xander pulled away. The human Anya was back, but it was time to stop thinking of her as his Anya. "We'd best deal with Reinhart."  
  
The big demon got off his knees at Anya's reappearance, but he looked very confused when Xander told him there was no need for a duel.  
  
"You are giving the fair Anyanka up?" Reinhart frowned. "Without a fight? Are you spurning her? Or are you merely a coward?"  
  
"I can still get that weapon, dude," Xander glared. "This is Anyanka, Patron Saint of Scorned Women. Do you think anyone gets away with spurning her?"  
  
"No, of course not," Reinhart said quickly. "Then, you are afraid to fight me."  
  
Anya smacked him in the arm. "Don't you call him a coward. He stood up to an army and to Glory. If he doesn't want to fight, then he has a very good reason."  
  
Despite his uneasiness at hearing her talk about Glory, Xander couldn't help smiling at her. "Thank you, Anya."  
  
Reinhart looked back and forth between the two of them. "Then--you are free, Anyanka? You are no longer tied to this pathetic human?"  
  
"Hey!"  
  
Anya looked wistfully at Xander. "No. I'm no longer tied. And he's not pathetic."  
  
Reinhart straightened triumphantly and looked at Xander, but whatever gloating remark he was planning faded at the stare the human was giving back.  
  
"She may not be tied to me," Xander said firmly, "but I hear one word, one syllable, that you are not treating her the way she deserves, and this duel is back on. And you won't want to put large bets against the impertinent human scum."  
  
For several moments, Reinhart only gaped, then he bowed in acceptance. Xander nodded back.  
  
Anya checked her watch. "Gosh, I have to get back to work. I left this Argentinian businessman dangling by his large intestine--"  
  
"Anya!" Xander protested.  
  
She smiled at him, took half an automatic step towards him, then quickly turned to Reinhart. "I'll see you back at the office." She disappeared.  
  
Reinhart was left staring at the place she'd been. "But . . ."  
  
Xander had to laugh. "Welcome to the magical fun house ride that is Anya. Good luck." And that hadn't been walking on broken glass to get that phrase out.  
  
"Yes." He shook himself. He studied Xander. "I now see why she considered you worthy of her. Farewell, honorable human." He bowed again, then disappeared himself.  
  
Xander stared at the hallway and at his smashed front door. "Yeah, honor. That and three bucks gets you a cup of coffee at Starbucks. Doesn't fix my door."  
  
He contemplated getting his tools, but shrugged and headed off to bed. Maybe he'd get to sleep before the shock wore off.  
  
Out on the landing just down from Xander's apartment, Spike smirked as he finally lit a cigarette. "Day by day," he murmured, "bit by bit, another piece of your soul gets chipped away. Not far to go now."  
  
Whistling softly, he headed down the stairs. Let Xander have the wretched night's sleep he had coming. Spike could wait

* * *

Buffy checked her class list as she strolled the cemetery. She heard faint movement in the bushes every now and then, but whenever she looked, she was alone. Maybe she should be checking hunting grounds, not spawning places. Willow hadn't mentioned any recent burials of suspect corpses, so Buffy didn't have any reason to stay in the cemetery. Even Sunnydale people knew that strolling was best done in parks and streets.  
  
Visitors, on the other hand . . .  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Travers."  
  
She turned and looked at a nearby grove of trees. Quentin Travers stepped out, chagrined.  
  
"Good evening, Miss Summers. What did I do wrong?"  
  
"The branches kept catching in your clothes, you're not quite in good enough shape so you're breathing too hard, plus I could hear your goons following you." She glanced at other bushes. "They are yours, aren't they?"  
  
"Yes, they are. Though I prefer the term 'colleagues' to goons'." He whistled briefly, and his colleagues came out of hiding, crossbows ready. Travers turned back to Buffy. "I would have sworn you were distracted by your reading."  
  
"We call it multi-tasking. I can listen for nasties while picking out my fall classes."  
  
Travers shook his head, smiling. "You have no idea how truly special you are, do you?"  
  
"Huh? I mean, excuse me?"  
  
"A Slayer at University. It's unheard of. There have been potential Slayers who have gone, of course, but never an active Slayer. Till you. I don't know how you manage."  
  
"If you ask my mom, she'll point to my grades and say I don't. Manage." She thought seriously for a moment. "My mom's always fought for me to have a normal life, and for her that means college. She still thinks I'm going to have a future. And just in case she's right, I'm going along with her."  
  
"A remarkable woman, your mother. I'd like to meet her, if I may."  
  
Buffy stopped walking. "That--is a bad idea. She doesn't much like you guys. I think it has something to do with your letting her get kidnapped by an insane vampire after you'd convinced my Watcher to take away my powers. I still have some issues about that as well."  
  
Travers nodded. "I understand completely. However, I would like a chance to mend matters. If nothing else, I still would like to speak to everyone about the events last spring."  
  
She frowned. "You aren't expecting everyone who was involved in that to be available, right?"  
  
"Yes, I am aware that two of the main players are unlikely to give formal statements. Still, you and the others should be able to give a good account." He thought a moment. "The restaurant of my hotel provides adequate meals. Perhaps you and the others could be my guests the evening after tomorrow? Eight o'clock?"  
  
Her mother's lectures on etiquette kicked in. "I don't know if the others have plans, but I'll let them know."  
  
"Excellent. I shall see you then." He nodded and turned to go.  
  
"Mr. Travers, may I ask you a question?"  
  
"Certainly, Miss Summers."  
  
"Why are you still here? When I saw you a couple of weeks ago, I thought you were in a hurry to get things--taken care of."  
  
Travers' mouth tightened. "Yes, I thought matters would be resolved by now as well. There have been complications."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Are you sure you want to know? Considering what we're planning, after all."  
  
Giles' final death . . . "Maybe not details. But what kind of problems?"  
  
The look he gave her was faintly proud. "I'd hoped we could take him by surprise, but I haven't even seen him yet. We seem to keep missing him. I don't have enough men with me to contemplate going to their lair, but London is reluctant to send reinforcements."  
  
"Why? I thought this was a priority."  
  
"It is. The Council, however, has heard disquieting rumors of some sort of unrest among older vampires in Europe. Something political."  
  
Buffy stopped and stared at him. "Vampires have politics?"  
  
"The older ones do. I believe they get . . . bored with simple carnage. There is organization among demons, Miss Summers. The Hellmouth is too volatile for the--civilized demons and vampires to be comfortable here, plus they prefer more sophisticated pleasures than are available in a small town."  
  
"Somebody told me that in LA there are demon nightclubs and bars. And some Minoto I met talked about going to join their family in San Francisco."  
  
Travers frowned. "You have been mingling with demons on a casual basis?"  
  
She started to answer, but suddenly she was unwilling to bring the Convent of St. Eugene to the attention of the Council if they didn't already know about it. And if Travers hadn't noticed Willie's bar by now, then he wasn't watching very well. "Sometimes I talk before I slay. Aren't I supposed to?"  
  
"Not all the friendly creatures are harmless. It can be very difficult to reconcile which demons are a threat and which are not. It takes a great deal of study."  
  
"If it's trying to eat me or the world, I generally decide it's a threat. If it just wants a latte, I give it the benefit of the doubt."  
  
"A--latte?"  
  
She grinned and shrugged. "It's a Hellmouth thing. We probably get that more around here than you do in London."  
  
He was still frowning. "Perhaps."  
  
"Anyway, I'll let everybody know about your dinner invitation. Day after tomorrow, eight o'clock."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Two days later, Joyce's Land Rover, with Tara at the wheel, pulled up at the porte cochere of the Lodge at Sunnydale. How a luxury hotel survived next to the Hellmouth was one of the smaller mysteries, but Buffy suspected that a good percentage of the clientele were not as human as some.  
  
Joyce was able to get out of the vehicle on her own by now, but she leaned on the door a few moments.  
  
"What's wrong, Mom?" Buffy asked.  
  
Joyce glanced at Dawn, who was chattering to Willow and Tara. "Do you really think she should be here? I don't know what kinds of questions they'll start asking about her."  
  
Buffy took her mother's arm. "Whatever they ask is old news. She was the Key. But Glory is gone, and if Dawn is still the Key it doesn't matter. It's all old news. And we don't have to answer any questions we don't want to."  
  
The valet came and took possession of the car, and the women went into the lobby. Willow looked around. Violin music played softly in the background as well-dressed people moved about. "I thought Xander and Anya were meeting us here. They did know it was tonight, didn't they?"  
  
Buffy looked around as well. "I told him it was. I even managed to talk to him instead of his answering machine. He didn't seem thrilled, but he didn't say no."  
  
Dawn was doing her best to act mature in the elegant surroundings. "Maybe it's taking him a while to get cleaned up after work. Have you ever seen him after putting up drywall?" Buffy nodded in agreement.  
  
They all paused in front of a large mirror to check themselves before going on to the restaurant. Dawn plucked unhappily at her dark skirt, then glared at the others. Even Tara, who regularly lectured about the frivolousness of fashion, looked grown-up and sophisticated. "I look like a kid," she muttered.  
  
Buffy poked critically at her own hair. "That's because you are a kid."  
  
"Girls," Joyce said sternly before Dawn could finish pulling her foot back for a good swift kick. "Now come on, we don't want to be late."  
  
Tara reached for Willow's hand. "What kind of questions is he going to ask?"  
  
"I don't know," Buffy said. "He wants to know what happened with Glory. That's all I know. And with two of the major witnesses not available, it's up to us."  
  
The maitre d' at the door of the restaurant gave them a courteous smile. "Good evening, ladies. How may I help you?"  
  
Joyce took command of the formalities. "We're dining with Mr. Travers."  
  
"Ah, the Summers party? This way, please."  
  
Quentin Travers was waiting for them in a private dining room with a round table heavy with crystal and silver spread across the white table cloth. Travers rose to his feet as soon as he saw them. "Ladies, good evening. Thank you for joining me." He held his hand out to Joyce, who hesitated just long enough before taking it.  
  
"Good evening, Mr. Travers," she said cooly. "A pleasure to finally meet you."  
  
He smiled faintly. "And I, you, Mrs. Summers." He gestured to the seats. "Please, won't you be seated?" He held Joyce's chair for her at the place to his right. Buffy sat next to her mother, with Dawn beside her. Willow and Tara took seats on the opposite side of the table from Travers. He glanced at the two empty chairs to his left. "Aren't Mr. Harris and Ms. Jenkins joining us?"  
  
Buffy cleared her throat nervously. "They're supposed to. Xander may be running late from work."  
  
"Ah, yes. The rest of you are students between classes, am I right? And you, Mrs. Summers, have an art gallery here in town. I'm glad to see you've recovered from your illness."  
  
Joyce nodded politely. "Thank you. I'm impressed with the records you keep on us all." Her smile had sharp edges.  
  
Dawn nudged Buffy. "I don't think she likes him," she whispered.  
  
"I don't think so either. Sh-h."  
  
Two waiters came in to fill water glasses and to inquire after drink orders. Joyce and Travers agreed to let the sommelier choose the wine. After a stern look from Buffy, Dawn settled for iced tea, like the others.  
  
Willow craned her neck to look out of the room. "There's Xander."  
  
"Excellent," Travers said, getting to his feet again.  
  
Xander's hair was still damp at the ends, and he'd gone the sport shirt and slacks route than attempting anything more formal. He nodded to everyone as he entered the room. "Sorry I'm late. I had to help with some paperwork."  
  
Travers held out a hand. "Not at all, Mr. Harris. The others only just arrived." He winced slightly as Xander shook hands, and he flexed his fingers as he indicated the empty chairs. "Is Ms. Jenkins coming?"  
  
"No, she isn't." Xander took the seat next to Willow, leaving the empty chair between himself and Travers.  
  
Willow frowned. "Did she have to go, um, out of town again?"  
  
"I don't know. She just left a message saying she wouldn't be able to make it." He focused on sipping from his water glass.  
  
Travers sighed. "That is too bad. I was definitely looking forward to speaking to her about the events this past spring."  
  
Xander only nodded and told the waiter he'd have the iced tea as well.  
  
Travers resumed his seat and looked around the table. "Now that all of us are here, perhaps we can begin our discussion. Shall I just tell you what the Council has heard and you can correct the story as needed?"  
  
Everyone looked to Buffy, who shrugged and nodded.  
  
"The last report I received stated that Glory was still searching for her Key. The stories that have filtered back say that your group abruptly abandoned Sunnydale and went to find refuge at a convent in the mountains rather than continue the fight against Glory here. May I ask why?"  
  
Buffy once again found herself spokesman. "My mom had a relapse, and Glory was starting to work her way through the Scoobies, looking for the Key. I couldn't protect everybody, so when we found out that there was a definite deadline we decided to hide somewhere until after the deadline. After that, her Key would be useless to her and we could figure out another way to stop her."  
  
Travers nodded. "A sensible plan."  
  
"Ben, a doctor who was looking after my mom, told me I needed a break and that I should take my family out of town."  
  
Xander leaned forward. "Glory's Ben told you to get out of town? I thought it was your idea."  
  
She shook her head. "He kept trying to stop her, so he decided to help."  
  
Travers frowned. "Glory's Ben? You accepted help from someone affiliated with the hellgod?"  
  
"It's not like we knew," Buffy said sharply. "We didn't find out till Glory showed up at the convent. Look, you know how Glory was bound to a human? That human was Ben. The two of them kept changing back and forth."  
  
"So what happened with this Ben?"  
  
"He, um . . . he died. And Glory died too."  
  
"Died how?"  
  
Buffy sighed. "Giles killed him."  
  
Travers sat back. "I see."  
  
"You know about Giles?" Xander asked.  
  
Travers nodded. "It's why I'm here."  
  
Willow gasped. "I thought you were just here to see Buffy. You're here to see Giles, too?"  
  
He smiled just a little. "Not see, no."  
  
"But--he helped us."  
  
"He was a Watcher, Ms. Rosenberg. One of our most effective, I've finally realized. It is a violation of everything we believe in to leave him in such circumstances."  
  
As Willow blinked in shock, Travers turned back to Buffy. "So, Glory's alter ego gave you the idea to wait out the deadline elsewhere. How did you know about the convent?"  
  
"Giles again," Buffy shrugged. "He'd been there before. They're really sweet up there, they took us in even with Glory on our trail and two vampires with us."  
  
Travers was tapping a finger restlessly on the table. "Why did you think it was a good idea to take two vampires with you?"  
  
"We needed the strength and their knowledge. Without them, we wouldn't have made it."  
  
The waiters returned with the first course of dinner. Travers allowed them to eat for several minutes before continuing with the conversation.  
  
"Tell me about the Knights of Byzantium," he said to Buffy. "I doubt the version we received from them is particularly unbiased."  
  
Xander put down his fork and closed his eyes. Willow reached over and squeezed his hand.  
  
Buffy glanced at Xander very briefly. "You heard all this from the Knights?"  
  
"We received one version of the tale from them. One of our contacts in Fresno heard rumors in the demon underground and gathered the reports. The main points are consistent, but the details vary widely. Was it a dozen or two hundred Knights there that night?"  
  
"A couple of dozen or so, I think. It doesn't sound like that many, but when they're all armed and pissed at you, it's a lot of guys."  
  
Travers nodded. "What happened with the Knights?"  
  
Buffy did her best not to look at Xander again. "I'm not really sure. Dawn and Giles and I were in another dimension."  
  
Travers perked up. "Yes, I am interested in hearing about that--but I do want to get my information on the Knights clear first." He looked at Joyce. "Mrs. Summers? What do you remember?"  
  
Joyce shrugged. "I was hiding in the chapel most of the time. It's really quite an amazing place."  
  
"I'm certain it is." He turned to Willow and Tara.  
  
"I was pretty out of it, too," Tara volunteered. "With my mind, well, being--somewhere else."  
  
"And I was too busy trying to figure out how to get her mind back," Willow added. "Oh, and stopping the fire arrows that the Knights kept shooting in at us."  
  
Travers leaned forward. "How did you do that?"  
  
"With magic. It took me a little bit to figure out that I couldn't just shatter them, because that just spread the fire around. I wanted to put up a barrier, but that would have stopped Buffy and the others coming back if they needed to." Willow sighed. "I wanted to go with them to Sqaon, but I had to stay so I could help Tara get better."  
  
Tara took her hand and smiled proudly. "You were very wonderful." Willow shrugged and smiled bashfully.  
  
Travers blinked a moment, then focused on Xander. "Mr. Harris? You seem to be the only witness left."  
  
Xander took a slow, deep breath. "So what story have you heard?"  
  
"We've heard so many different stories. I'd like to hear yours."  
  
He looked up and met the other man's eyes. "Why?"  
  
Travers blinked again. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Why do you want to know the details? Isn't it enough to know that we won? Again? When everyone expected us to fail?"  
  
"We're Watchers, Mr. Harris. We watch. We take notes, we keep records. The past informs the future, but we must remember the past for that to happen."  
  
Xander made no effort to disguise his hostility. "And what if we don't want to be in your records, Mr. Travers?"  
  
"Mr. Harris, you already are. Wouldn't you rather the records contain the truth?"  
  
Xander smiled very faintly. "Truth. Interesting concept. Often over-rated."  
  
Travers leaned forward. "There is a phrase: History is written by the winners. You are one of the winners. What would you have history say of what happened?"  
  
Xander closed his eyes again as his breath became shaky. "The Knights came. They threatened us. We held them off all night. Just before dawn, their General and a few others snuck in. Before it got any more interesting, Glory showed up. And it got messy."  
  
"That's it?" Travers asked after a few moments' silence.  
  
"Isn't that enough? That's what happened."  
  
"Well, yes, but how did you hold off a small army? How did the General get in? What happened to them all?"  
  
"They died," Xander snapped. "Every single damned one of them." His smile was predatory. "If you want gory details, you could always ask Spike. I'm sure he remembers everything."  
  
"Yes. Quite so." Travers took a sip of wine before turning back to Willow. "Ms. Rosenberg, you were working a great deal of magic that night."  
  
Willow shrugged. "Well, it was mostly very simple things, redirecting the arrows, putting out the fires, things like that."  
  
"How long have you been studying?"  
  
"About three years now."  
  
Travers paused before his next question when the waiters came back to refill glasses and bring more food. When they left, he resumed his questions. "And you are self-taught?"  
  
"Pretty much. Ms. Calender, our high school computer teacher, had some notes and books, and--and Giles would answer questions and--and stuff."  
  
"Yes," Travers said in a grim voice, "Rupert always did have a knack for that sort of thing. You and Ms. McClay have been studying together?"  
  
Willow nudged Xander for snickering. "Yes, we have."  
  
"Had you ever done anything like that portal spell before?"  
  
"Oh, no, nothing like that. It was amazing. Giles knew the spell, and Sister Agnes had a book in her library that we used to fine tune the spell so it would go to the right place. Anya had been there, so she was a lot of help in getting it right. Giles and I cast it, then I closed the portal after he and Buffy and Dawn went through. He said he could cast the portal to get everybody back."  
  
"This was at the beginning of the evening, after the Knights arrived?"  
  
"Um hm. They were after the Key, so we had to get Dawn somewhere safe away from them." She stopped, looking guilty.  
  
Travers smiled. "I already knew about the Key, Ms. Rosenberg. All the stories were quite clear that it was the Slayer's little sister who was the target of all the attention." He turned to Buffy. "Did you know, when we were here last, about the identity of the Key?"  
  
Buffy nodded. "Yes, we did."  
  
"We would have been happy to help protect her."  
  
"She was given to me to protect. And I didn't want you treating my little sister as a test subject."  
  
Travers nodded, then looked at Dawn herself. "Ms. Summers, you've felt no ill effects from being the Key?"  
  
"Um . . . " Dawn glanced at Buffy and Joyce, then back at Travers. "Uh uh. I feel fine. I feel like I always have."  
  
"Like you always have?"  
  
"Mr. Travers," Joyce said, "what is the first thing you remember about Dawn?"  
  
He thought for a moment. "When I received the report about Buffy being the next Slayer, it mentioned her family, you, Mrs. Summers, her father and her sister, Dawn." He blinked. "But that's--"  
  
Joyce nodded. "It's like that for all of us. Her aunt in Ohio sent a birthday card, and the school district just sent me the enrollment package for her."  
  
Willow grinned at Dawn. "You wanted to cut off my hair the first time I babysat you."  
  
"Did not," Dawn muttered.  
  
"Then what were those scissors for, missy?" Dawn didn't answer.  
  
Xander glared at her. "And somebody who shall remain nameless but whose name rhymes with prawn kicked my butt at foozball at her twelfth birthday party at the Chuck-e-Cheez."  
  
Dawn blinked. "You said you let me win!"  
  
"I lied! You think I wanted to admit a twelve-year-old beat me?"  
  
She bounced in her chair. "I really won? All by myself?"  
  
He sighed. "Yes, you really won." Dawn squealed in high-frequency glee.  
  
Travers watched everything gravely. Joyce watched him. "We did everything we had to to protect her and the world from Glory," she said. "It wasn't easy, and it really isn't anything we like talking about." Travers glanced at Xander, who was smiling as Dawn gloated. "Can't you let it go?" Joyce added.  
  
"I suppose it can wait till another time. Excuse me?" he said a little louder. The rest of the table fell silent. "Ms. Rosenberg, Ms. McClay, I'm very interested in how you solved the problem of Glory interfering with Ms. McClay's mind. It's unheard of for anyone to recover from that."  
  
They discussed Tara's recovery through the rest of the meal. Travers answered a few questions from Joyce about the Watchers and the training of Slayers, but they managed to keep it civil.  
  
After dinner, he and Joyce shook hands as they gathered their things to leave.  
  
"If you ever have any other questions you'd like to ask, Mrs. Summers, please don't hesitate to call me." He handed her his card.  
  
Joyce tucked it into her purse. "I'll do that. Thank you for dinner, Mr. Travers."  
  
The others followed her out, saying Thank You and Good Bye. Dawn caught Travers' eye on her and ducked between Buffy and her mother as they left.  
  
Travers watched them go, then turned back to the table. From among the flowers of the centerpiece, he pulled a very small tape recorder. He rewound the tape, played a few seconds to make sure of the recording quality, then tucked the recorder safely into his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

The vampire bounced when he hit the building wall. When he pried himself off the filthy asphalt, he stared at the alley stain on his brand new Universal Studios Spider-Man t-shirt. "Aw, man, I just got this last night! Bastard!"  
  
Angel bounced on the balls of his feet. "Yeah? Well, the shirt's not going to be a problem very much longer." He started forward, then hesitated. "What were you doing at Universal Studios?"  
  
"Duh? The rides? That Terminator show rocks."  
  
Back in a corner near some crates, Wesley kept the crossbow trained. "Angel, we don't have time for this."  
  
"Right."  
  
The tourist vampire continued his survival with a few inspired avoidance moves.  
  
"Dammit," he gasped, "the travel agency said LA was a great town for vampires."  
  
Angel paused again. "Travel agency? What travel agency?"  
  
"Angel!" Wesley protested.  
  
"Online," the vampire said. "I was looking for a nice beach vacation. LA's rated four stars."  
  
Angel looked at Wesley in frustration. "How long have I been in this town? Has everything I've done been wasted?"  
  
"Will you pay attention!" Wesley saw the vampire gather himself to jump Angel. He fired the crossbow, and the bolt flew past Angel's shoulder and into the tourists heart.  
  
Angel stared at Wesley in shock, then pointedly checked his arm to see if there were holes in the leather jacket.  
  
"Oh, stop it," Wesley snapped. "It didn't come anywhere near you." He looked around anxiously as he reloaded the crossbow. "The vision said there'd be more of them."  
  
Angel scanned the shadows and rooftops. "Cordy said four of them, right?"  
  
"Right."  
  
Minutes passed with no more vampires appearing.  
  
"She's never wrong," Angel said.  
  
Wesley let the crossbow dip a couple of inches. "No, she's not."  
  
"Interference again?"  
  
"I don't think so."  
  
"Then we read it wrong."  
  
Wesley gestured at the faded advertisement painted on the brick wall above them. "We have the Tia Rosa sign, we have the flickering street light."  
  
"But we don't have four vampires fighting me all at once."  
  
"No, we don't."  
  
Angel stepped further down the alley, sifting the night with every sense he had.  
  
Particles of the tourist still floated on the air. The taste of garbage and hydrocarbons bit Angel's tongue. Rats scuttled in the shadows, the buildings mumbled as the earth twitched.  
  
Whispers. Which stopped as soon as he turned his head to get a better angle.  
  
"Somebody's here," he told Wesley.  
  
Wesley stepped into the middle of the alley to scan in all directions. "Where?"  
  
"Not sure."  
  
Angel studied the rooftops again. One of the buildings across the way looked different, emptier. He started towards the fire escape.  
  
"Where are you going?" Wesley asked, catching his arm.  
  
"They were on the roof."  
  
"And you're going after them why?"  
  
"Because I don't like knowing there are four vampires out there hunting me?" He pulled his arm free. "The vision shows them fighting me down here. If I'm up there, then they can't jump me down there."  
  
"That's true, you would be outside the scope of the vision. But that means anything could happen."  
  
Angel spread his arms out to the otherwise empty alley. "Well, nothing's happening down here, Wes."  
  
"No, it isn't." Wesley considered the pile of dust that used to be a visitor to the fair City of Angels. "I don't think you were supposed to fight him."  
  
"The kid he was stalking would beg to differ."  
  
"Of course. But the vision wasn't about the kid, it was about you. When Cordy had the vision, I don't think our tourist friend planned to be in this alley."  
  
"But the Powers that Be would have known."  
  
"That presumes the Powers are able to see the outcomes of every possible future."  
  
"Isn't that kind of the whole point of omniscience?"  
  
"We don't know that they're omniscient. If they were, we wouldn't have to worry about reaching people in time." Wesley frowned. "At least, I hope not. I'd hate to think of omniscience tied to sadism. Anyway, I think the vision changed."  
  
"They'd have called us."  
  
Wesley was already pulling out his phone. "Yes, they would have. But I always turn off my phone when I'm expecting a fight." He checked the screen. "Three messages. Did you get any messages?"  
  
Angel considered all the things an evil person could do to that so-innocent face. "My phone's at the hotel."  
  
"Ah."  
  
"What do the messages say?"  
  
"They're from Gunn. Basically they say to look out for Spider-Man."  
  
Angel blinked innocently. "Three messages just to say to look out for a t-shirt?"  
  
Wesley glared. "And to be careful, of course."  
  
"Of course. It's good he worries about you."  
  
Wesley pushed a speed-dial button as he continued to glare at Angel, but the look faded to pure concern. "No answer at the hotel number." He tried some other buttons. "Nor for Cordelia or Gunn."  
  
"Fred knows how to answer the phone, doesn't she?"  
  
"I imagine she does, but I don't know that she would."  
  
They studied each other. "We'll take the sewers in," Angel said.  
  
"Good idea." Wesley went to see if his crossbow bolt had survived, then they headed back to Angel's car.  
  
They parked a block away, then took to the sewers. A hundred yards from the hotel access, Angel gestured for Wes to turn off his flashlight. Wesley took careful hold of Angel's jacket as he followed the vampire towards the ladder.  
  
Very carefully, Angel opened the trapdoor that led into the cellar. After a pause to scan the room, he opened the hatch the rest of the way, climbed up, then pulled Wesley up after him. They moved silently through the corridors toward the stairs.  
  
Angel jerked to a stop two rooms away from the stairs. "Oh, my god," he whispered. Wesley stared at hm anxiously. "I can hear them talking," Angel finally explained. "It sounds like everyone is OK. But--Wes, swear to me you'll let me do the talking."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Seriously, Wes. Everything's just gone to a whole new level of weird." He waited till Wesley grudgingly nodded. "Keep the crossbow out and loaded. They'll respect that."  
  
Wesley obviously bit his tongue on further questions.  
  
Angel made an effort to neaten himself up a little, then headed for the stairs. Halfway down the hall, Wesley could hear the conversation himself.  
  
"It always strikes me as such a cruelty," said the creaky voice of an evil old man, "that such a heavy burden as true visions should be placed on young, lovely creatures."  
  
"I manage," said Cordy, sounding tense and nervous, but more angry than afraid.  
  
"You've never been tempted to set them aside?"  
  
"Of course I have. But it's not like I can get rid of them, and, besides, Angel needs them."  
  
"Yes, the brave Angel--who I believe is about to join us."  
  
Angel snarled silently and picked up his stalking pace. Wesley was grateful that his long legs allowed him to keep up. The guard who was standing at the opening to the tunnel jumped when he heard the sound behind him.  
  
"It's all right, Tonio. Let them come."  
  
Cordelia started to get up from the plush round settee, but the vampire at her shoulder put his hand out.  
  
"Touch her and we'll be vacuuming you up for days," Angel snapped as he and Wes entered the lobby.  
  
Seated next to Cordelia on the settee was a man in the red robes of a Roman Catholic Cardinal. His face was too angular for age to explain, and the teeth in his smile resembled shark more than human. At his shoulder stood another vampire, this one wearing a brown monk's robe, with a leather messenger bag over one shoulder.  
  
"Aldo," he said, "I would believe Signore Angelus in this. The bella signorina is free to do as she likes."  
  
Cordelia took a step away. "Are you guys all right?"  
  
"We're fine," Wesley told her. "Where are the others?" He kept his crossbow leveled as he scanned the lobby.  
  
"Yo, English. Up here." Gunn and Fred were up on the balcony, flanked by two more vampires. Fred was staying as close to Gunn as she could manage, but the vampires were out of arm's reach.  
  
"Everything OK up there, Gunn?" Angel asked.  
  
"We're good."  
  
Angel looked at Cordelia, who shrugged with a fine imitation of unconcern. "Nobody's hurt," she said. "These guys came in about ten minutes ago, saying they had to see you."  
  
He nodded. "Your Eminence," he said coldly. "Forgive me for not saying I'm glad to see you. And, no, I'm not kissing your ring."  
  
The old man chuckled and withdrew his hand. "It was worth a try." He looked at Wesley. "You must be the Watcher. I am--"  
  
"Hieronymus Vittorio Sebastiano, Cardinale Fortezzi di Siena," Wesley said. "I presume."  
  
Cardinal Fortezzi chuckled. "Indeed. My compliments, Angelus. Your compatriots are everything I expected them to be."  
  
Cordelia took another careful step towards Wesley. "He's a vampire, right?"  
  
"Yes, he is. Turned sometime in the sixteenth century, I believe."  
  
Fortezzi smiled pleasantly. "Fifteenth century, but it was very close. 1498. My half-millennial celebration was quite lovely. If I'd known your address, Angelus, I'd have sent an invitation."  
  
Angel was still glaring. "The name is Angel. What are you doing in my home, Fortezzi?"  
  
"As cliche as it may sound, it is a matter of family business."  
  
"Your Marlon Brando imitation is very unconvincing."  
  
Fortezzi chucked, but the smile was gone. "You dismissed us casually when you last saw us, my young friend. I'd hoped a couple of centuries or so would teach you a little wisdom."  
  
"It has. I want nothing to do with you, and I'm very surprised you want anything to do with me."  
  
Wesley moved closer to Angel. "I know you said to let you do the talking, but what are you talking about?"  
  
Angel hesitated. "Cardinal Fortezzi is one of the elders of the Order of Aurelius. I told the Master to bugger off back in the 1700s, but for some reason they're back to bother me now."  
  
Fortezzi glared. "These are not matters to be discussed in the presence of humans."  
  
"Then leave. If it can't be discussed in front of them, it can't be discussed in front of me."  
  
The Cardinal stared at Angel for several moments. "Is it the soul that has caused you to treat your prey as your friends?"  
  
"They're not my prey." He met Fortezzi's eyes squarely. "I'm looking at my prey."  
  
Unexpectedly, the ancient vampire began to chuckle. "Ah, Angelus--Angel, in a different world what a leader for Aurelius you would have made."  
Angel stared at Wesley, then at Fortezzi. "Excuse me? Leader of Aurelius? That's what this is about?"  
  
Fortezzi nodded. "The elders have ruled. It's time to find someone to lead the Order again."  
  
Cordelia slowly pointed a finger at Angel. "Him?"  
  
"Oh, no, bellissima, no. While we love to amaze ourselves with the tales of the Scourge of Europe, our Angel is not under consideration. We have our candidate. She's young, but she has the hunger for power."  
  
"What does this have to do with me?" Angel asked.  
  
"I'm afraid I wasn't as forth coming with dear Fleur as she thinks. I've rather placed it in her mind that the line of Darla and Angelus is worth examination."  
  
"Examination?"  
  
"We tell tales of you, Angelus. No tales are told of Fleur de Mal. Not yet. She needs a chance to do something memorable."  
  
"So you sicced her on me."  
  
Cordelia grabbed Angel's arm. "Those vampires I saw jumping you--"  
  
"They weren't there. But I think they were watching." Angel looked ack at Fortezzi. "So this Fleur de Mal is coming after me."  
  
"Not that I'm aware of," Fortezzi shrugged. "Forgive me, dear boy, but you are merely a disturbing curiosity these days. She may decide to tidy you out of the way, but I pointed out someone in your line who is much more interesting."  
  
"You sent her after Spike."  
  
Fortezzi nodded. "William the Bloody is uncouth and disreputable, but he is also resilient. He holds the Hellmouth, he destroyed the Anointed One. He managed to survive the human's anti-demon Initiative. By rights, he should be one of the counselors of the Order."  
  
Angel couldn't help laughing. "Spike hates politics. The only way you'd et him to a meeting would beif you provided beer and pretzels and football. On a big screen TV."  
  
"It would be amusing to see," Fortezzi chucked.  
  
Cordelia cleared her throat. "Let me get this straight. The prime candidate to lead the Order of Aurelius has gone to Sunnydale to kill Spike in order to prove her worthiness."  
  
Fortezzi nodded.  
  
"Spike is going to object to this, so you've set up a vampire civil war to happen in my home town. That stinks."  
  
"You are from Sunnydale?" Fortezzi took a deep breath. "Yes, you have Hellmouth in your blood."  
  
"Hey!"  
  
"That explains so much," Wesley murmured.  
  
"Hey, again!"  
  
"I've never heard of Fleur de Mal," Angel said. "How old is she?"  
  
"Very close to her quarter millennium. She is wily and dances politics very well."  
  
Angel couldn't help a small smile. "Spike will take her. He sneers at politics, but he knows how to hunt. And she's going to be on his turf. I suppose she'll cheat."  
  
Fortezzi chuckled. "She's a vampire and an Aurelian. Of course she'll cheat. You believe she will lose?"  
  
"Unless she can take him completely flatfooted. If he's expecting trouble, she doesn't have a prayer."  
  
"Hm." The Cardinal snapped his fingers at the vampire in monk's robes. "Phone, Roberti." The monk pulled a cellular phone from the bag on his shoulder and handed it over. Fortezzi peered at the buttons. "Is it Star 21 for Heidelbaum?"  
  
"Star 12, Your Eminence."  
  
"Grazie."  
  
Cordelia leaned to Angel. "Twice your age, and he can use a cell phone."  
  
"Hush, already."  
  
"Bon jour, Leon! C'est Fortezzi."  
  
Angel listened a moment, then looked at Wesley. "Is he making a bet?"  
  
Wesley shook his head. "Changing one. Less on Fleur de Mal, and a side bet on Spike under an alias."  
  
Cordelia humphed. "Nice to see he's so concerned about his protegee."  
  
Angel shook his head. "Fortezzi is a master politician. He's set up options no matter how this plays out."  
  
Fortezzi finished his call and returned the phone to Roberti. Wesley cleared his throat. "Your pardon, Your Eminence, but I'm curious. You are apparently someone of influence in the Order. Why not take the leadership for yourself?"  
  
Fortezzi waved a hand. "I don't seek such recognition. I am not ambitious. The Master had ambitions. He had vision. We shall not see his like again."  
  
"Thank god," Cordelia muttered. She met Fortezzi's glare with one of her own.  
  
"I was content to serve the Master," he went on. "That is my place, to serve., be it the Aurelians or Holy Mother Church." He bowed his head and clasped the pectoral on his chest. It was heavily jeweled gold, as close to a cross as was apparently possible.  
  
A snort of contempt came from the balcony. "Is this going to take much longer?" Gunn asked. "'Cause I don't think I can take much more."  
  
"Charles . . ." Wesley hissed in warning.  
  
Fortezzi looked up. "You have an objection, my friend?"  
  
"I ain't your friend, dead man. And yeah, I have an objection. Blasphemy is my objection. A demon sitting there dressed like a priest, acting some sort of righteous--yeah, I object."  
  
Fortezzi's smile seemed honestly delighted. "A man of faith. I see so few, these days. And yet you serve Angelus, who is as much a demon as I."  
  
"Demon, sure. But not like you. See, he's heard of redemption, and he thinks it's worth trying for. You, you're just another leech on two feet."  
  
Nearly everyone in the room flinched at that, but Fortezzi only studied Gunn a moment longer before glancing at Angel. "And you allow this in your service?"  
  
"Proud to have him," Angel said easily.  
  
"Angelus would never have tolerated such impertinence."  
"I know. More important, they know, too."  
  
Fortezzi nodded and gathered his robes to stand. "I do hope it's not another two centuries before I see you again, Angel."  
  
"I hope it's longer."  
  
With a chuckle, Fortezzi took Roberti's arm and made his slow way to the front door. "Come, my children." The other vampires retreated in the Cardinal's wake.  
  
As the door closed, Angel looked everyone over. "You're sure you're all OK?"  
  
Cordelia nodded. Gunn pulled Fred down the stairs after him. "We're fine, man. Just a lot of staring and standing too close. What was that all about?"  
  
"Yes," Wesley said. "Why on earth would someone like him come to you and warn you about this Fleur de Mal? Is he expecting you to interfere?"  
  
Angel thought, then shrugged. "He had multiple reasons. He always does. He's probably been looking for a reason to check up on me, he wants to see if I'm still a threat, he wants to see if I'll leave Spike to his fate or if I'll interfere. I imagine he's curious to see how Fleur de Mal can handle a changing situation."  
  
"Those vampires I saw, what about them?" Cordelia asked.  
  
"Maybe reconnaissance, maybe a hit team. You'll have to keep an eye out for them while I'm gone." He waited to see who would be the first to shout down the others.  
  
Wes glared at everyone until they were silent. "You're going to Sunnydale, I take it? Going to warn Spike?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
Cordelia rolled her eyes. "Hello? Does anyone else remember a game of Pin the Poker in the Vampire? Why do you care?"  
  
"It's not Spike I'm worried about, it's Sunnydale. And the rest of the world. The Aurelians have been quiet while looking for a replacement for the Master. This Fleur sounds like a traditionalist, and do we really want someone new looking for ways to open the Hellmouth and better methods of mass slaughter of people?"  
  
Wesley nodded. "Yes, disrupting their line of succession would be useful. Plus a vampiric civil war would be very messy."  
"Right," Cordelia said firmly. "When do we leave?" She held up a hand as Angel took a deep breath. "Don't. OK? Besides, it's been a long time since I paid a visit back there."  
  
Wesley didn't even bother saying anything, just gave Angel a stubborn but sympathetic smile. Gunn grinned. "Oh, I so have to see this place after everything you've told me."  
  
Fred was pulling into herself. "I--don't . . ."  
  
"We're not dragging Fred up there," Angel said. "And we're not leaving her here by herself.."  
  
The other three looked at each other, waiting for someone else to volunteer to stay in Los Angeles.  
  
"I--um . . ." Fred cleared her throat. "Maybe Lorne--wouldn't mind . . .?"  
  
"I'll call him right now," Cordelia said brightly, heading for the phone.  
  
Angel sighed in defeat. "I'm trying to avoid dragging you folks into a vampire civil war."  
  
"We'd have only followed you," Wesley said kindly.  
  
"I know."

* * *

Even though everything was supposed to be back to normal, Dawn was nervous. Too many things hadn't been resolved. The Council of Watchers guys were still in town, Giles was still a vampire, Spike was still wandering around being the Big Bad. Buffy tried to pretend that everything was fine, but she spent a lot of time staring out the windows, frowning. When Dawn had proposed switching rooms with her if she moved back to the dorms, Buffy agreed without comment. Where was the fun in that?  
  
It was Xander Dawn worried about most. He'd refused two invitations to dinner, and he never showed up at the Magic Box. Anya refused to talk about him even when directly asked. Some times she would gaze off sadly, but she talking about someone named Rinehart these days.  
  
Even Willow seemed to have lost track of Xander. "Oh, I'm sure he's fine, Dawnie," was her casual reply when Dawn had said she was worried. Tara, at least, had looked vaguely concerned and wondered when the last time was that they'd seen Xander. Willow had promised to call him, but Dawn didn't think she had.  
  
Dawn was ready to take matters into her own hands. If he and Anya really were on the outs after everything that had happened, he needing cheering up. Reminded that there were still people who appreciated him. She was starting her campaign of Xander appreciation at the mall, where she was looking for a present for him.  
Guys were so hard to buy for. She flipped through the country music CDs, not recognizing any names. Maybe something in soundtracks?  
  
They had a bunch of sci fi soundtracks, including X-Files, all the Star Treks and the Star Wars. Unfortunately, she didn't have quite enough money to get a CD plus that new blouse down at Fashion Bug. Unless . . .  
  
She slid a fingernail casually under the corner of the security tag on the top edge of the X-Files jewel case. Sometimes they didn't put the tags on strong enough --  
  
A throat was cleared behind her, and she squeaked. She turned and did her best innocent look.  
  
The guy behind her was about Buffy's age, blond, and looked very bashful. He didn't have an employee name tag on, so she relaxed a little.  
  
He nodded at the jewel case in her hands. "That's not the only security system they have. They've got, um, specialized scanners at the door."  
  
Dawn glanced at the entrance to the record store. On either side of the door were big statues of monsters from some science fiction movie. Then one of the twitched.  
  
The young man nodded as Dawn jumped. "They don't really do anything to shoplifters, but you can't sneak anything past them."  
  
"What are--are they demons?"  
  
He gave her a close look, then nodded. "They're Nedgars. Empaths. Very good at picking up guilt. So . . . you know about demons?"  
  
She shrugged. "Oh, I've seen a few things. Family business, sort of." She held out her hand. "I'm Dawn Summers."  
  
He took her hand gingerly. "Summers? Do you know Buffy?"  
  
"She's my sister." Dawn wasn't sure if she wanted him to be impressed or if she was annoyed at being defined by Buffy.  
  
"Oh. I'm Andrew. Andrew Wells. Tucker's brother," he added grudgingly.  
  
"Who's Tucker?"  
  
Andrew grinned in delight. "Will you marry me?"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Sorry, sorry. It's just--nobody ever remembers me, they always remember Tucker."  
  
Dawn nodded in understanding. "I know that one. So what did your brother do that everyone remembers him?"  
  
Andrew shrugged casually. "He . . . summoned some hell hounds and sicced them on the senior prom in high school."  
  
Dawn laughed before she could help herself. "Oh, how cool--no, wait, bad. Naughty Tucker." She snickered again. "Which explains why Buffy was so pissy that night." She gave him a knowing look. "Did you get to help?"  
  
"Oh, gosh, look at the time--"  
  
She patted his shoulder. "It's OK. Buffy never lets me help, either." She looked at the CD in her hand, then at the demons by the door.  
  
"It's on sale, Andrew said helpfully.  
  
"I know, but . . ." There were better karma points in spending money on gifts rather than on yourself. But, gosh, it was such a cute blouse . .  
  
Andrew cleared his throat. "I, um, know a shield to get past the Nedgars."  
  
"You do?" Dawn managed not to squeal, then put her arm around his, snuggling up to his side. "Hi, shopping buddy." She gave him her most dazzling smile.  
  
He blushed and nearly dropped own collection of DVDs. "So, uh, was there, uh, anything else you wanted to look at?"  
  
"No, no, mustn't be greedy." She peeled the security sticker off the CD and smoothly tucked the case into her purse.  
  
"The shield blocks those scanners, too," Andrew said.  
  
"Really? You're a useful guy to know. Is this shield very hard to do?"  
  
She urged him to the doors, chatting blithely as they went. The demons didn't even twitch. Dawn bounced just a little when they reached the crowded walking space. She didn't let go of Andrew  
  
"So, where shall we go next, you and that nifty scanner blocker you've got?"  
Andrew stared at her, overwhelmed but apparently happy to be so. "I don't look very much like Warren Beatty."  
  
Dawn stopped and stared at him. "Excuse me?"  
  
"Bonnie & Clyde? It was a movie?" She shook her head. "Never mind." He looked around the mall thoughtfully, then sighed. "I'm supposed to meet my friends at the game store."  
  
Dawn sighed, too. "Figures. It was too good to be true, anyway. Well, you go find your friends, and maybe we'll find each other again later." She bounced up and kissed him on the cheek. "So long, Andrew, who isn't Tucker."  
  
She slipped away from him, and he blinked at her. "So long, Dawn, who isn't Buffy." He waved as she turned to go; she waved back as she bounced off through the crowd. Slowly he put his hand on his cheek and wandered off to the game store.  
  
Jonathan spotted him first. "What's wrong with you?"  
  
"I got kissed," Andrew said dreamily.  
  
Warren didn't look up from the new Dungeons & Dragons books he was looking through. "By what?"  
  
"By a girl."  
  
Both Warren and Jonathan stopped what they were doing and stared at Andrew. "A girl?" Jonathan repeated.  
  
"Of her own free will?" Warren asked suspiciously.  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
Jonathan and Warren looked at each other, then out into the crowd, trying to spot a girl who might be the type to kiss Andrew willingly. "Who was it?" Jonathan asked.  
  
"Her name's Dawn. Dawn Summers."  
  
Warren's eyes narrowed. "Summers? As in Buffy Summers?"  
  
"Uh huh. Her little sister."  
  
Jonathan's expression was somewhere between impressed and dismayed. "The Slayer's little sister kissed you? Why?"  
  
"A gentleman never tells," Andrew sniffed.  
  
Warren was still scanning the crowd. "The Slayer's little sister, eh?" He ran a thoughtful little finger along his lower lip.  
  
Jonathan applauded politely. "Oh, lovely Dr. Evil, Warren. Just lovely. You're not going to want to get a cat, are you? Because I'm allergic."  
  
Andrew shook himself and focused. "Why are you getting all Dr. Evil about Dawn?"  
  
"Oh, no reason, no reason. It's just--she's a connection to the Slayer, that's all. And she apparently likes you. Very well done."  
  
Andrew beamed at the approval.

* * *

Xander paused in checking the plumb of the wall he was working on, suddenly wondering what day it was. That as happening a lot, lately. The work days ran together, with Charlie bitching about his wife, Paco complaining about his car, Toby calling his girlfriend on his cell phone every chance he had, and the foreman wandering through to say they weren't being paid to lollygag.  
  
It used to be a good feeling, like he had a little community all his own. Now, though, it felt like another part of the endless grey plain that had becme his life. This is your life, Xander Harris. OK job, OK car, no girl, alleged friends. Oh, and an outstanding debt to the master of the vengeance demons, who would get back with him when a sufficiently interesting payment was thought of.  
  
"Harris!"  
  
Xander jumped and dropped the level. "Fuck," he muttered, as Sam the foreman strode up.  
  
"It's a level, Harris, not the Playboy centerfold. Stop staring at it and get back to work."  
  
Xander nodded an apology and picked up the level. His gut wanted him to snarl at Sam, but the foreman was just doing his job. Sam was already stomping over to Toby, who was hanging up on his girlfriend very quickly. But that was happening more often, too, Xander zoning out on the job and having to be called back to attention. It was just so damned hard to care anymore.  
  
He managed to stay focused for a couple of hours, checking the work and cleaning up where standards had slipped. He made sure to pay attention when he was up on the open steelwork for the third floor. Last week he'd spaced hooking up his safety harness, then nearly fell off an I-beam when he noticed a moving crane-load of steel at the last minute and had to dodge. Rookie mistakes.  
  
Over lunch, he let his mind wander, ignoring attempts to pull him into various lunch hour conversations. Maybe he'd go take a nap in his car. That might help his brain.  
  
He was just about to stand up and head for the rough parking lot on the east side of the site when he saw a familiar car parked half-way behind the wooden barrier at the street. A car he'd seen parked in his neighborhood a lot and too often here at the site. The man behind the wheel was a stranger, but one afternoon he'd seen Quentin Travers sitting in the passenger seat next to the driver as they had a serious conversation. When Xander had started over to confront the Watchers, they'd driven quickly away.  
  
What the hell did they think they were going to see, spying on him? He was just a guy. Why weren't they spying on Willow or Buffy or tracking down Giles? He was nobody. Why wouldn't they just let him be nobody?  
  
"Harris. Xander!"  
  
He jerked at the shake of his arm. Sam the Foreman was staring at him. "Oh, sorry, Sam. I was--sorry. What can I do for you?"  
  
Sam nodded towards an empty part of the site. "Let's talk."  
  
"What about?"  
  
"Over here."  
  
God, a private chat. So never, ever good. How many of these had he gone through over the years, always starting with "Let's talk" and ending with "Where do send your last paycheck?" He bit back the rage and frustration and followed.  
  
Sam led the way out of sight of the others, behind a pile of sheetrock. He put his hands in his trouser pockets and looked at Xander. "Harris--Xander . . . are you on something?"  
  
Xander actually took a step back. "What? No!"  
  
"Look--we've all seen it. The distraction, the spacing out on things you damned well know how to do--" He gave a hard sigh. "And I can smell the beer."  
  
The blush hurt. "That's--this is the same shirt from yesterday. I spilled some last night--I do not come to work drunk."  
  
Sam nodded and relaxed just a little. "Good to know. What about the rest of it?"  
  
Why did he have to keep talking about it? "There's just been--I'm not taking anything. I know I'm messing up, but there's stuff on my mind."  
  
"How are things with you and your girl?"  
  
Xander closed his eyes. He'd talked to the guys on the site about where to buy an engagement ring, then he had to tell them that was all off, just so they'd stop teasing him about wedding dates and all that. The rough, blessedly brief sympathy had helped. "Her new boyfriend works the same place she does," he finally said.  
  
"Oh, fuck," Sam muttered. "I'm sorry, Harris." He sighed again. "I know it's rough, but--you can't keep doing what you're doing here. You'll get hurt. You'll get somebody else hurt."  
  
Xander braced himself for the next words, the ones that kept reinforcing what a waste of space he really was.  
  
"I know you've got a lot of vacation time laid up," Sam went on. "Go home, take next week off. Get your head back in line."  
  
He blinked. "You're not firing me?"  
  
"Hell, no." The foreman finally managed a smile. "You know which end of a hammer to put in your pocket, we need guys like you. Just--you've got to get it straightened out, Harris. Go on home. Get some rest. Change your shirt." He clapped Xander on the shoulder and walked away.  
  
Surprise and relief made Xander dizzy. Yes, he did have a lot of vacation saved up. He'd been thinking honeymoon and how much convincing it would take to make Anya leave the store for a couple of weeks. No reason to not take some of that time now. And he did like the idea of getting some sleep.  
  
He wiped his sweaty palms on his shirt. The shirt that smelled of last night's beer and which made his bosses think he'd come to work drunk. Damn, that was humiliating. And Sam had said "everybody" knew. He so much did not want to deal with that right now. If he cut around behind the trailer where the site office was, he could get to his car without anyone seeing him.  
  
He was picking his way among the piles of extra conduit and angle iron just behind the trailer when he heard voices inside. "What's got you so pissed off, Sam?" asked Mr. Simak, the site manager.  
  
"I talked to Harris," Sam said over the gurgle of the office water cooler.  
  
Mr. Simak made a knowing sound. Xander was unable to move.  
  
"You know the way he's been just spacing out lately," Sam went on. "He reeked of beer."  
  
"He was drunk?" Mr. Simak snapped.  
  
"He said he wasn't, and I believe him. Said it was last night's shirt."  
  
"Girlfriend's mad at him, huh? Not doing the laundry?"  
  
"Girlfriend has a new boyfriend."  
  
"Oh, hell. That's tough. What did you do?"  
  
"Gave him next week off, told him to use some of that vacation time. He was grateful I wasn't firing him."  
  
"You think he'll come back?" Mr. Simak said after a moment. Xander blinked in disbelief.  
  
"I don't know," Sam said thoughtfully. "If he's drinking the way he seems, he might crawl in somewhere cool and round and forget. Dammit, I really thought the Harris pattern might leave him alone."  
  
Xander had been about to protest, regardless of eavesdropping, but his gut suddenly wouldn't let him breathe.  
  
"You ever meet his father?" Mr. Simak asked.  
  
"Oh, yes." Sam's voice was full of contempt. "The pleasure was all his."  
  
"I went to high school with him. Well, not with him, just at the same time as him. He was on the football team."  
  
"Let me guess, bully of the school."  
  
"No, actually. He was just a guy like the rest of us."  
  
There was another moment of silence. "Let me guess--his dad knocked him around. That sort of thing does tend to run in the family." Sam's voice was resigned.  
  
"I have no idea. Wasn't something we talked about then. I do know Tony's father was no prize."  
  
"Great."  
  
Grandpa Cliff. The only man who could make Xander's father flinch. Xander thought Grandpa must have been the most amazing man in the world for that. Men like that were allowed to be impatient and out-of-sorts with kids. Family visits were short and far-between.  
  
"It's a damned shame," Sam muttered. "I had Harris pegged as a climber, but . . ."  
  
"Yeah." There was silence for several seconds. "Did you talk to the asphalt contractor? They think they're doing the parking lot next week."  
  
"What? We've still got supplies out there."  
  
Xander found himself sitting on the ground, hidden behind building supplies. The Harris pattern. They even had a name for it. He thought it was just called loserdom.  
  
They'd learned about it in school, the vicious cycle of child abuse, how kids who were hurt were more likely than others to hurt their kids. He'd sworn he wouldn't be like that, he wouldn't use his temper against the people dependent on him. He wouldn't be like his father, or his grandfather before that . . .  
  
Suddenly algebra made sense. If A equals B, and B equals C, then A equals C. Grandpa had turned out a son just like himself. Xander didn't want to go down that road, and he'd thought it would be easy. But he'd never thought of his father in high school, never wondered what he'd been like at Xander's age. Just a guy. Just like Xander. How did a guy like all the others turn into someone who ripped out your heart in dreams? For once Xander wanted to track down his father and ask, but his automatic flinch told him what he'd get for the effort.  
  
If Dad was like Grandpa, but Dad had once been like Xander, how much like Grandpa could Xander become?  
  
Maybe Xander was already on that road. It must have made sense the first time his father had shoved him out of the way. The subconscious always had a good reason for the bad things that happened. Something like, "Sorry, dude, but the poor crazy girl's life is more important than yours." The next ones were easier. They weren't human, anyway. Xander was getting pretty good at killing the things that weren't human. So easy to go from "destroy the threatening non-human" to "destroy the threatening human". How hard was the step to "destroy the annoying human"? All the soldiers he'd maimed could answer that.  
  
The Harris pattern. They even had a name for it.  
  
No. He would not allow it. Break the chain, stop the madness. Before anyone else got hurt.

* * *

It was surprisingly difficult to get away in the evenings without explanation. Willow didn't have the study group excuse before classes started. Tara wouldn't object if Willow just said she wanted to go out by herself for a while, but she wouldn't be able to stay out for long.  
  
Her magic lessons had been casually scheduled for every Friday or Saturday night. On Friday, Willow regretfully gave Tara a mug of tea dosed with sleeping herbs, then tucked her into bed with a kiss and a murmured charm for peaceful, deep sleep. She paused for a guilty second at the door, then headed out.  
  
Why had she never gotten Giles' new phone number? She kept meaning to, but never bothered. And she couldn't think of a plausible reason to ask Anya for the number.  
  
Did Giles know the Watchers were after him? He had to, didn't he? Spike, at least, should have noticed new hunters in town.  
  
She ran all the way to Sunrise Grove, with the spell to divert attention in place the whole way. Fred was on duty at the front door of the rec center. He blinked in surprise when she dropped the spell a few feet away from the building, but recovered quickly.  
  
"Evenin', Miss Willow," the vampire nodded.  
  
"Hi, Fred." Willow fought to catch her breath. "Is he here?"  
  
"Yeah, he's downstairs. Another bundle of books came in today."  
  
"Oh, thank god."  
  
Fred blinked in surprised, then shrugged and opened the door for her.  
  
She hurried through the rec center, ignoring the other vampires in the building. A vaguely familiar female watching TV in the old gymnasium grabbed the arm of a leering male, pulling him back and whispering to him. Willow heard "witch . . . Ripper's" before she pushed through the firedoor at the head of the stairs and headed down.  
  
The music from Giles' workroom tonight was more screaming guitars and drums, and a man yelling "We won't be fooled again!" Willow stopped in the open doorway, panting.  
  
Giles sat at his desk, filling out an index card while looking at the title page of a book. He looked up and smiled. "Good evening, Willow. You didn't have to run the whole way." He tucked the card inside the book and closed it, then stood just in time to catch Willow as she ran to hug him. "What's all this?"  
  
"There are Watchers in town. They're looking for you." She pulled back and saw his face go blank.  
  
"Are you sure?" he asked.  
  
"We had dinner with Quentin Travers the other night. He wanted to know about Glory, but he said the main reason they were here was to . . . find you."  
Giles nodded slowly. "I'm not surprised. How long have they been here?"  
  
"A couple of weeks, according to Buffy. Maybe longer."  
  
"A couple of weeks? What has Buffy told them?"  
  
"She said--she told them everything. How to find you, everything. Giles, I'm sorry, she didn't want to, but she--"  
  
Giles smiled and touched her cheek. "But she's the Slayer. It's her job. But you came to warn me. Thank you."  
  
"I had to! You're not like those others, you're smart and careful and--"  
  
She stopped as he slipped into gameface, his eyes never leaving hers.  
  
"And killing people, Willow," he said, still lisping faintly around the fangs. "I'm a vampire. Their job is to stop me." She couldn't answer and dropped her eyes. Giles hugged her, and when she looked up again she saw his human face. "Quentin Travers, you say?"  
  
"He asked all these questions, wanting to know about Dawn and everything about Glory. Mrs. Summers didn't trust him."  
  
"Joyce is an excellent judge of character."  
  
He let go of her and stepped back, frowning. Willow watched him. "What are you going to do?"  
  
"I'm not sure yet. Do you know where they're staying?"  
  
"Probably the Lodge at Sunnydale. That's where Mr. Travers had us for dinner the other night."  
  
Giles smiled just a little. "Yes, they would put themselves up at the most elegant hotel in town. In any case, Willow, warnings aside, you're here for your lesson. Let's work on your avoidance spell first, then we'll start studying the names of demons. I want to do that summoning in a couple of weeks, but we have to know just who we're summoning."  
  
Willow put her book bag on the work table and started to unpack, but she still frowned in worry. "You will be careful, won't you?" she asked in a small voice.  
  
"Of course, my dear." He kissed her forehead. "But you're very kind to worry." 


	3. Chapter 3

In Senegal, where Fleur de Mal was born at the end of the 18th century, she had watched the French colonists. The elders of her tribe had scolded her, saying the Europeans were no business of hers. Regardless, she watched. She learned of their power--the power to walk into another person's country and declare it theirs. Some tribesmen protested, but the colonists prevailed.  
  
Power lured her. She had been contemplating marriage with the son of the chief elder. Her beauty was her own power, and she knew that any man she cast her eye upon would come to her hand. But now her eye went farther afield. The head of the trading company was flabby and often dirty, but other men bowed to him. When Fleur strolled across the company's clearing and allowed the foreign men to gaze on her, she caught the eye of their chief and smiled. Six months later, she was at his side on the ship headed to France, her tribe's condemnations in her ears and European silk on her shoulders.  
  
The trader installed her at his country home while he returned to his wife and business in Paris. Fleur had strolled the alien gardens, marveling at the unimaginable landscapes. One summer evening she found a man in the remote part of the gardens, a small, skulking man whose eyes held secrets and promises. She died on his fangs that night, and she awoke to immortality. Her Sire, Jean la Chien, had taken her back to his Master, where she gazed on ageless power. She knew her Sire's place in the Master's court was little more than a joke, but she served him with gratitude. When her Sire was destroyed, she swore herself to the Master's service and began preparing herself for her destiny.  
  
Aurelius was nearly hers, Fleur mused as she ran her fingers through the luxurious waters of her bath. The elegant, empty mansion on the outskirts of the Hellmouth had lovely appointments, once things had been cleaned. Humans were nothing but prey, but they were clever, and only the most conservative shunned the comforts of the human world. Fleur lounged in the large, tiled tub of the master suite, surrounded by candles, her slave crouched at the side of the tub as he tended to her very long hair.  
  
The house smelled of vampires, though the scents were old. Fleur breathed in the traces. It was said Angelus had lived here, before his move to the city that bore his name. Anguish perfumed the empty rooms, torment and blood. Someone had suffered here. Several someones. Madness and rage and lust and betrayal.  
  
"So lovely," she whispered Her slave paused in drawing his fingers carefully through her wet hair. "Nothing, mon agneau. Braid it, please. I'm going out later." The slave nodded and reached for his combs. He froze, whimpering.  
  
Fleur frowned at him, then saw the problem. Creeping through the door was a severed hand, fairly fresh and leaving a trail of liquid behind it as it pulled itself along by its fingernails. She patted her slave's arm.  
  
"Louis!" she called.  
  
"Oui, madame?" came from a few rooms away.  
  
"Are you missing something?"  
  
"How did you--oh!" A thin, dark man ran in and snatched up the flexing hand. "So terribly sorry, madame. The dead are just so sprightly here on the Hellmouth, even the bits that aren't attached to anything have the urge to wander."  
  
"Not everyone has your appreciation for spare parts, Louis. Please make sure everything is confined."  
  
Louis bowed. "Of course, madame. It won't happen again. This must have crept out when my back was turned." He studied the hand, which was still curling its fingers. "Now, where were you trying to go, hm?" Murmuring to himself, he left the room.  
  
Another man came in, looking back over his shoulder at Louis and grimacing. "Another escapee?" he asked Fleur.  
  
"Wandering bits. It startled my poor lamb, that's all. You don't like Louis, do you, Paul? Is it because he's a necromancer or because he's human?"  
  
"He's a Gypsy, isn't that reason enough?" He shuddered, then smiled. "Besides, necromancer, vampires--a potentially tricky relationship."  
  
"He finds enough bits to play with to keep him happy. Besides, I find his magic useful." She held her hand out languidly. "What news on the Rialto, my Paul?"  
  
Paul went to the tub and took her hand to give it a courtly kiss. He had learned his manners as a living man in the Imperial court of Napoleon, where his wit and blond good looks had charmed both Empresses. He learned his cunning during the seesawing months when the French kings reclaimed their throne, lost it with Napoleon's return, then regained it on Napoleon's fall 100 days later at Waterloo. He barely remembered the vampire who had waylaid him in an alley behind a Parisian brothel in 1824. He had served Fleur de Mal in whatever capacity she desired for one hundred years.  
  
Stepping blithely around Fleur's slave, Paul sat in the chair at the foot of the tub. "There is news. His Eminence has taken to traveling."  
  
Fleur turned her head as far as the braiding process would allow her. "Except for the meeting in France, he hasn't left Italy in a dozen decades. Where did he go?"  
  
"Los Angeles."  
  
"No."  
  
"Yes. He paid a call on everyone's favorite outcast, Angelus."  
  
Fleur stared at the ceiling. "But--are you sure?"  
  
"I called the Archduke. Fortezzi paid a courtesy call on Sebassis, then stopped by that hotel Angelus calls home, then reboarded his private jet back to Rome."  
  
"But he's on my side!" Fleur protested.  
  
Paul tsked. "The old snake is on his own side. He currently favors you--apparently. He may just be stirring the pot."  
  
Fleur had her thoughts under better control. "What is Angelus doing?" She frowned at Paul's fidget. "Well?"  
  
"It appears he's coming here. He's sent out various messages that he and his people are leaving Los Angeles for a few days."  
  
"I see. Calling Fortezzi would be fruitless, of course. He'd either deny the entire thing or pretend it was merely curiosity. Why would he stir up Angelus?" She looked at Paul at the same moment Paul straightened in realization. "Because Angelus is the great unresolved issue of the Order of Aurelius."  
  
Paul nodded quickly. "Enough people have known over the years that he was cursed, I'm surprised he wasn't ordered destroyed. Or were they hoping he could be released?"  
  
Fleur shook her head. "I never heard it discussed. There's too much legend involved for clear debate. But he does need settled."  
  
"It would be very impressive."  
  
"What would?"  
  
Paul took a deep breath. "If you destroyed Angelus."  
  
Fleur let her head rest on the rim of the tub. Her slave kept the braid he was constructing from getting in the way. "Destroy Angelus." She smiled slowly. "Yes, the Order would definitely take notice of that. I don't suppose anyone knows where Drusilla is, do they?"  
  
"South America, the last I heard," Paul shrugged. "Why?"  
  
"Angelus would be impressive enough. But his entire line? We have William the Bloody here, and Angelus is coming . . ."  
  
Paul rose and went over to pick up Fleur's hand and give it another kiss. "And this is why you're favored to lead the Order."  
She smiled at him. "They're not dead yet, my dear. But it is a good plan, isn't it."  
  
He leaned over to kiss her lips. "Indeed, mon coeur."

* * *

The second vampire victim's body of the night was tossed up in a tree in the park. From what Buffy could tell, there were multiple bites from multiple vamps. Just like the first one, which had been left curled up on a park bench in full view of the street. Newbies didn't hunt in packs, typically. Spike's crew didn't go in very often for ostentatious killing where the Slayer could find out, but Buffy hadn't heard of a new gang in town.  
  
She walked on cautiously through the park. This latest body was less than an hour old. Part of her wished for Scooby back-up, but that was immediately countered with relief that she didn't have to worry about anybody getting hurt. Willow's magic was very useful, but she'd seemed very distracted the past few days. Maybe it was her usual "less than a month till classes start, and I haven't finished reading all the books yet!" thing.  
  
Buffy kicked a nearby rock. Mom had mentioned a trip to the beach for a long weekend again, and Buffy hated saying she needed to keep an eye on the Hellmouth. She wanted to watch her mother smile in the sun and her sister play in the ocean. She knew normal was a lie in her world, but couldn't she pretend for just a few days?  
  
And, right on schedule, here came another drama, crashing through the bushes and breathing hard. She pulled out her stake and got ready.  
  
Floppy-skinned Clem, clutching a basket to his chest, fell out of the bushes into the open and looked around desperately. "Oh! Miss Slayer! Help!" Before Buffy could react, Clem was hiding behind her. "They're trying to kill me!"  
  
More crashing in the underbrush, and Clem's pursuers appeared: three men with crossbows.  
  
Three familiar men with crossbows.  
  
"Now, who said you could go charging around my town like this?" Buffy protested.  
  
"Please step away from the demon, miss," the bowman on the left said.  
  
"Oh, you mean this demon? The one hiding behind me? Who asked me to protect him from you?" Clem hunched down further, peering over Buffy's shoulder.  
  
"Miss . . ."  
  
"Where's your boss? Or is he letting you run around loose tonight?"  
  
Quentin Travers hurried down the path, breathing just a little heavily. "No, Miss Summers, they're not running around loose. They just got ahead of me." He stopped and leaned on his walking stick. "Still, they have a valid point." He glared at Clem. "Why are you protecting that demon?"  
  
"Because he asked me to?"  
  
Travers frowned. "That's very clever, to hide behind one hunter to escape another group of hunters. Still, he ran when he saw us."  
  
Clem blinked in surprise. "I always run from scary guys with crossbows!"  
  
Buffy shrugged. "Not a bad plan, actually." She noticed squeaking noises coming from Clem's basket. "Clem, what's in the basket?"  
  
"Oh, um . . ."  
  
She gave him a stern look. "I'm backing you up here, Clem. Tell me there's not something icky in the basket."  
  
"There's not something icky. Unless you don't like fur."  
  
"Clem!"  
  
He sighed and eased the top off the wicker basket. Several furry little noses poked at the opening, mewing urgently.  
  
"Kittens!" Buffy squealed. She lost her grin fast to a look of horror. "Why do you have kittens? Oh my god, what are you going to do with the cute little kittens?"  
  
"I'm going to play poker with them," Clem said, sounding baffled. He gave her a disturbed look. "What do you do with kittens?"  
  
She gently stroked a little tabby head. "Hug them." She firmly pulled her hand back. "You play poker with kittens? How do they hold the cards?"  
  
Clem blinked. "I--no. I make bets with the kittens."  
  
"You use kittens for money?"  
  
"Well, yeah."  
  
Buffy stared at Clem for a few more moments, then turned decisively back to Travers. "You see, Mr. Travers? Just a guy going to his poker game. You don't have some sort of 'Shoot him because he doesn't look like everyone else' orders, do you?"  
  
Travers stopped staring at Clem. "This is an alien creature--"  
  
"Hey, I was born in this country, mister!"  
  
Travers paused to get his thoughts back in order. "He's a--" he cleared his throat "--demon."  
  
Buffy shook her head. "What was that?"  
  
"It's not pronounced like that," Clem said. "More in the back of the throat." He made a coughing-hacking noise.  
  
Travers blinked. "Are you sure?"  
  
"Dude, I am one, I know how it's pronounced."  
  
"But Rutger's Universal Compendium is quite clear that the glottal stop is on the first syllable."  
  
"All I know is the only person I know who pronounces it like you is Mom, but she's from Texas."  
  
"Texas?" Buffy asked.  
  
"Dad met her on vacation, brought her home to meet the folks. Been here ever since."  
  
Travers thumped his walking stick on the ground. "In any case! These are dangerous creatures, Miss Summers."  
  
"So am I! So are baby deer and goats!"  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Have you been to a petting zoo?"  
  
"Miss Summers--"  
  
"Mr. Travers!" She caught her breath. "While your goons have been chasing poor Clem around the park, there's been a gang of vampires turning the populace into a buffet. There's a fresh body not a hundred yards down that path. Don't you think that's a bit more important than Clem going to his poker game?"  
  
Travers hesitated, then looked at his men, who were conferring among themselves and shaking their heads. "I wasn't aware of that," he said slowly. "Yes, that is more important. A gang, you say?"  
  
"Multiple sizes of bite marks."  
  
Clem made a nauseated noise. "I'm thinking you guys have Slayer business to talk about, so how about I just head on over to the game?" He started to sidle away, but the crossbows came up.  
  
Buffy glared at Travers, who sighed and nodded to his men. They reluctantly lowered their weapons.  
  
"OK, then!" Clem said brightly. "I'll just be going, then. Nice to see you again, Miss Buffy."  
  
"You, too. And it's just Buffy. Be careful, Clem."  
  
He grinned and headed down the path, a happy bounce in his step.  
  
Travers watched him go, frowning. Buffy watched him for a few moments, amused by the look of baffled British reserve. "Never chatted with a demon before?"  
  
"Never so . . . genially."  
  
"Don't you think that's how it should be?"  
  
"How do you mean?"  
  
Buffy began walking, Travers falling in at her side and the sullen crossbowmen following. "He asked me for help. A demon asked the Slayer to protect him. And Clem isn't really a demon, he's just not human. His Mom's from Texas! Instead of shoving everyone into human and demon-ish, shouldn't I be protecting the good people, whatever they are, from the bad people--whatever they are?"  
  
Travers frowned. "Creatures like--Clem are dangerous."  
  
"My mom can be dangerous if you push her hard enough. Most of my friends are dangerous. That doesn't mean they're bad."  
  
"No, it doesn't. Miss Summers, the simple fact is--you are unique. The vast majority of Slayers don't survive long enough to have the time and experience to consider the philosophic underpinnings of what we do. They're busy surviving and learning to fight, and there's generally a catastrophe of one sort or another that doesn't allow them the time to consider things."  
  
Buffy thought on that for a few moments. "I can see your point," she said quietly. "So what's your excuse?"  
  
"Pardon?"  
  
"You're the head of the Watcher's Council. You've got access to all the books about the weird creatures in the world. You've had time to consider things." She looked back at the crossbowmen still following them. "I just don't think you care."  
  
"Miss Summers, there are reasons we do things--"  
  
"What reasons! How do you justify killing creatures who aren't hurting anybody? How many harmless creatures have you and your Merry Men gone after since you've been here?" She stopped at the foot of a tree and looked up. Travers followed her gaze and winced. A human corpse, clothing half-ripped off, multiple bite wounds darkening the flesh.  
  
Buffy stepped in close to Travers. "That's what I'm supposed to be fighting against, Mr. Travers. The things that butcher people. I've gone after killer robots and crazed wizards and kids who stitch their brothers back together and bring them back to life and government agencies gone nuts. I don't go where you point or kill whatever you think I should. That's not how we do things here on the Hellmouth."  
  
After several moments, Travers glanced back up at the body. "You suspect something new in regards to this? There aren't--gangs already in place that are hunting together?"  
  
"It's not Spike and Giles' bunch, no. They lay very low." She glared out into the night. "Something else has moved in, and it's making itself at home."  
  
"Yes, we should look into this--"  
  
"No."  
  
Travers turned to Buffy in surprise. She gave him a very steady look in return.  
  
"I think you should go home. I know why you came but I don't know why you stay, and this isn't the place for you and the way you do things. Either do the job you came here to do or not, but decide and go home."  
  
"Miss Summers, it is not for you to decide where members of the Council go or what they do--"  
  
She took a supernaturally fast step up close to him. "Then listen to the Slayer when she tells you that you are a threat to her town and she doesn't put up that! This is not a training exercise! You are stirring up all the wrong things, and I don't have time for that! That is the second body I've found tonight, and I'm pretty damned sure that while I've been messing with you, a third body is somewhere out there!"  
  
The crossbowmen came up closer, looking antsy and willing to fight. Buffy glared at them but smiled very slightly.  
  
"Gentlemen, please," Travers said quickly. "Miss Summers, please, there's no need for us to fight." He muttered under his breath for a few moments, then shook his head. "You're right, Miss Summers. This is not the job I and my men are suited for. We should finish matters, one way or another. But it might take a few more days. I'm still communicating with England on some issues."  
  
Buffy nodded tightly. "Just so it's soon." Her shoulders sagged just a little. "Maybe I can send Mom and Dawn to the beach by themselves."  
  
"Pardon?" Travers asked cautiously.  
  
She waved a hand in the air. "Sorry, never mind. My mom wants to take us to the beach for a few days. Pretend we're a normal family and spend some normal time together. She hasn't been up to it before now, and Dawn and I had summer classes, and there's not much time before classes start again--" She shook her head. "And that's not really here nor there. Too much stuff going on here."  
  
Travers watched her for several moments. "Miss Summers, there is very little that I can do for you that is useful or relevant. But perhaps I can give you some time."  
  
"Excuse me?" Buffy blinked.  
  
"If you would entrust the safety of your town to me and my men for a few days, then you could go with your family on a brief holiday."  
  
"Oh, but, I can't--" She hesitated, then hit him with a full-strength smile of delight. She very nearly hugged him, but caught herself in time. "Mr. Travers, that would be--it wouldn't be for long, two or three days, a long weekend is all."  
  
"That would be fine. Just tell me when you're leaving, and my men and I will patrol the town--for evil-doers of whatever stripe, leaving the innocent alone," he added at her sudden scowl.  
  
"That should do fine, then." Her smile got away from her again. "Thank you, Mr. Travers."  
  
He bowed slightly. "You're very welcome, Miss Summers." He glanced up at the corpse and sighed. "I suppose we'd best go look for the next poor victim. Perhaps we'll get lucky and find the vampires that did it."  
  
Buffy nodded firmly. "That would be nice."  
  
"And perhaps you can instruct me on how things are done on the Hellmouth."  
  
"We survive, Mr. Travers. We survive."

* * *

"Come on, you lazy sons of bitches, what's it take to get eaten in this town these days?" The young man sitting on the tombstone tilted his head back to drain another inch from his whiskey bottle. "My god, you guys are pathetic! Used to be you couldn't walk more than a block at night without some blood sucker going for you. Vamps these days, geez."  
  
In the shadows, the week-old fledgling licked his fangs and started forward. A hand grabbed his collar and twisted. "Hold it right there, Billy Bob."  
  
Billy Bob growled at his hunting partner. "Lemme go, Nathan! He's just sittin' there, drunk and stupid and beggin' for it!"  
  
"Yes, he is, but that's just too bad. You know the rules."  
  
"Yeah! Kill the humans, drink their blood! Make 'em scream!"  
  
Nathan shook his head. "Fledges. Billy Bob, do you remember what the boss said? Something about some folks being off limits?"  
  
Billy Bob screwed his face up hard as he thought. "Uh ... no."  
  
"If you last a month I'm buying you a screaming teenager all for your very own. OK, there are some people in this town that we're not to go near. We showed you the Slayer, you remember what she smelled like?"  
  
"Yeah. Euw."  
  
"Good boy. The wind's coming in our direction, take a whiff of entree over there."  
  
Billy Bob took a deep breath, drooling a little at the scent of all that healthy blood. Then his nose wrinkled in disgust. "He smells like the Slayer!"  
  
"Uh huh. And what did the boss say about people who smell like the Slayer?"  
  
"Uh ... leave 'em be."  
  
"Good boy! You may make it after all."  
  
"But, Nathan, the boss and the Wizard smell like the Slayer, too, sometimes."  
  
"And we leave them be. Not too hard, now, is it?"  
  
Billy Bob thought for several seconds. This apparently had gotten no easier after death. "But--what about him?" He nodded towards the man with the bottle. "Somebody's gonna eat him, why not us?"  
  
"Because the whelp's not on the menu," said a new voice.  
  
Nathan turned, sighing in relief. "Hey, boss. Sammy got hold of you?"  
  
Spike stood under the tree and lit a cigarette as he stared at the human. "He got me. How long has this been going on?"  
  
"The guy plopped himself down there about an hour ago. Me and Billy Bob are the only ones who've seen him, but--"  
  
"Come on, assholes!" yelled the human. "Nummy treat here! Where the fuck are you!"  
  
Nathan shrugged. "What do we do?"  
  
"I'll take care of him. You two eaten yet?"  
  
"Yeah, but Billy Bob's still peckish."  
  
"There's a frat party up on campus just letting out, but keep an eye out for the Slayer."  
  
"OK. See you later, boss. Come on, Billy Bob."  
  
Spike waited till the two minions were out of range, then strolled out into the clearing. "Evenin', Harris. Lovely deathwish you've got tonight."  
  
Xander glared at him around the bottle he held to his lips. "Can't have a death wish if the fucking killers won't show up."  
  
"Lovely language, too. Picking up the family trade, are we?"  
  
"Leave me the fuck alone." He looked out into the darkness. "Here, vampires! Free food!"  
  
Spike settled on a nearby tombstone. "Sorry, pet, but you're off the menu. Nobody's going to be dining on you tonight. Or any other night."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
The vampire smiled at the young man. "Because nobody gets to kill you but me."  
  
Xander finished his whiskey as he studied Spike, then he smashed the bottle against the tombstone. He pushed up his shirt sleeve and sliced open his arm with the broken glass. "Let's do it, then." He held out his arm, dripping blood, to Spike.  
  
Spike jumped to his feet. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!"  
  
"You said you were going to kill me. No time like the present." Xander stared at the cut on his arm and the blood running down.  
  
From somewhere Spike found a scarf to wrap around Xander's arm. "Fuck, that's going to take stitches." At this range, the smell was dizzying, hot and rich and familiar, even if laced with whiskey. He stared at his bloody fingers, then slowly raised them to lick them clean.  
  
"More where that came from," Xander said softly, watching the vampire features come out as Spike licked his lips. He held his arm closer to the sensitive nose.  
  
Golden, half-closed eyes studied him, then Spike took hold of Xander's wrist and proceeded to lick away the blood trails from the arm and hand. Xander closed his eyes, ignoring everything as he waited for the touch of fangs. But it eventually dawned on him that the teeth nibbling on his index finger were blunt. He reluctantly opened his eyes and found Spike in human face as he played with Xander's fingers.  
  
Xander yanked his hand away. "Dammit, Spike, you promised!" He clawed at the knot holding the scarf over his wound. "Dammit, what's it take to get eaten these days?"  
  
"Less than you think, pet" Spike murmured. "Come on, now, stop that." He captured Xander's hands. "And I didn't promise anything."  
  
"Yes, you did, every day it was 'As soon as I get this chip out, I've got a list, and you're all on it. Gonna kill you all, and if I like you I'll make it quick.' Well, the chip's out, the world doesn't need saving, so let's get with the program."  
  
"Oh, I've still got that list, boy. 'I've got a little list,'" he sang to himself. "but I'm not going to start on it just yet."  
  
"Fibber. Liar. William the Bloody, all big talk, no follow-through. Yeah, I figured as much. Hey, vamps!" he yelled. "Spike's a big, fat--"  
  
Spike put one hand over Xander's mouth and the other on the back of his head. "I may not kill you, but I can still make you hurt, boy." He shifted his fingers to close Xander's nose. Xander struggled a moment, then he stopped trying to fight for air and relaxed into Spike's hold.  
  
Spike pulled his hand away. "Jesus, Xander, what the hell are you up to?"  
  
Xander breathed jerkily, as if fighting his body's autonomic reflexes. "What's it look like, fangboy?"  
  
"Like you're trying to commit suicide by vampire." Spike lit another cigarette, hiding his unease behind smoke.  
  
Xander looked away, staring off sullenly. Spike sat down on the headstone of the beloved wife of the man whose tombstone Xander was sitting on and pulled out his flask.  
  
"Gimme," Xander said, reaching.  
  
"You've had enough, whelp."  
  
Xander snorted. "I'm a Harris, I can cope. Gimme."  
  
"I said no. Fuck, Harris, look at you. What the hell are you up to? Drinking yourself stupid, wearing the same clothes as yesterday, by the smell of it. Next thing you know you're going to be shopping for a refrigerator box down by the docks."  
  
"Yeah, and why the hell not? What does it matter anyway? Give me one reason why I shouldn't?" He sagged into himself, staring down.  
  
Spike had to admit that his "comfort the depressed" skills were a bit lacking. According to the telly, you were supposed to remind the suicidal of all the things he had to live for: friends, family, loved ones, hope for the future. A quick rundown of the standard list vis a vis Xander Harris, however, showed a series of blanks that were, quite appropriately, depressing. And it wasn't hard to track back to its source. He hadn't been watching the boy all summer for nothing.  
  
He took a long drag on his cigarette. "You meant to die that day, didn't you."  
  
Xander continued to stare at his hands, hanging limply between his knees. "Would have solved everything nicely. You tie up the loose ends, you make sure the people you care about are taken care of, you do the big deed, and you die. And you don't have to worry about going to work the next day and coming up with a good reason for missing a week of work."  
  
"Yeah, well, tough luck, you lived. Deal with it."  
  
"I could have gone out a hero instead of--whatever it is I am now. There's no black and white anymore, Spike. I stood next to you, a soulless, chipless, happily evil vampire, and I killed humans. To save the life of the woman I love, I made a deal to turn her back into a vengeance demon. And now my best friends give me funny, scared looks--when they bother to look at me at all. Why the fuck bother anymore? Stop the Harris loser train before it drags its sorry ass along any farther."  
  
"You're not a loser," Spike muttered.  
  
"Uplifting words from a serial killer. Very comforting." He got to his feet and wobbled. "Thanks anyway."  
  
"Where are you going?"  
  
Xander waved in a vague direction. "If the vampires won't see me off, I bet I can find something in the town to do it. G'bye, Spike."  
  
Spiked jumped to his feet and grabbed Xander's arm. "C'mon, pet, let's just get you home. Sleep some of this off and you'll feel better in the morning."  
  
Xander yanked free and slapped Spike's hand away. "I don't want to feel better in the morning. I want to be dead in the morning."  
  
"Not going to happen."  
  
"I bet I can find something around Willy's bar to make it happen."  
  
God, the boy had actually thought this out. Without a bodyguard, he'd find easy death before he went a block. Make him stop, make him think . . . "Gonna make someone else do the deed, boy? Don't have the balls to do it yourself?"  
  
Xander hesitated, then he reached down and picked up a big piece of broken whisky bottle. Moonlight glittered off a jagged edge. His eyes were calm and not nearly as befuddled as all that booze should have made them. Then the shard was moving, up to the side of the throat where years of vampire experience told him the blood ran best.  
  
"Shit!" Spike jumped forward and grabbed Xander's wrist. He clamped down until the shard fell from numb hands. Xander struggled, and Spike grabbed both arms, pulling him close..  
  
"Let go," Xander growled.  
  
"No way in hell--"  
  
Xander shifted his weight and brought his knee up hard. Spike yelled, but before Xander could pull free, he was yanked against the chest of a snarling, demon-faced vampire.  
  
"You wanna die that bad, boy?" Spike growled. "This what you want?"  
  
Xander stared back into the yellow eyes, breathing hard. "Yeah."  
  
Spike slowly wrapped his fingers in Xander's hair and pulled his head back. Xander never broke the stare. Spike freed his other hand and sliced a small cut in Xander' throat with a claw-like fingernail. Xander twitched but made no attempt to pull away. Spike leaned in close enough to feel the heat on his face.  
  
"This what you want?" he whispered, staring into flat brown eyes. "Drain you dry and leave you to rot? End the sorry mess you call your life?"  
  
"Do it," Xander breathed.  
  
Spike stared a moment more, then drove his fangs into Xander's throat.  
  
Xander gasped, then closed his eyes and relaxed.  
  
Spike growled as he drank, reveling in the heat and despair. He felt Xander's body go limp and chuckled--then his higher functions kicked him in the head. He let go and swore, licking his lips so as not to lose anything. Xander hung in his arms, heart protesting and breathing shallow. Blood ran from the holes in his throat. Spike leaned down, drawn to the pulse.  
  
"Fuck," he snarled, and laid Xander on the ground. He pulled the scarf from around Xander's arm and pressed it to his throat. "God damned, lack-brained idiot!" The scent tortured him; it took a shaking effort not to dive in and finish the job. Force enough of Spike's own blood down the boy's throat to make sure of him, then drag him home. It'd be days before anyone noticed he was missing. And why the hell wasn't he doing it, already?  
  
He licked his lips again, tasting. Despair, a little regret. No fear. No anger. No hate. No life. He slapped Xander's unresponsive face.  
  
"Do not go gently into that good night, dammit! This is not going to be because you don't have any better ideas! I don't do charity, and I sodding hate 'Don't Fear the Reaper!'"  
  
He snarled a final curse and pulled Xander up into his arms. The De Soto was at the cemetery gates, and he could claim at the hospital that he'd been innocently driving along when he'd spotted this poor git on the side of the road. Though he'd better wipe his mouth before he got there.

* * *

It was well past midnight when Quentin Travers made it back to the hotel. He now had empirical evidence on the wisdom of using adolescents for the job of Slayer: even supernatural abilities wouldn't be enough without the endless energy of a youngster. Though Buffy Summers didn't seem to be suffering any lack as she entered her twenties. Her experience and intelligence more than made up for any--admittedly undetectable--falling off in physical abilities. Remarkable girl. And remarkable training. Travers spared yet another moment for grief at the Council's loss.  
  
His men continued to the higher floor where they shared a small suite while Travers walked stiffly tohis room. They'd found two vampires in the park who proved to be much more clever than the usual sort. They fought as a team, giving Buffy a significant challenge. Travers' men were trained in hand to hand fighting, but they didn't have a Slayer's strength or resilience. They managed to distract one of the creatures long enough for Buffy to destroy it, then the remaining one apparently decided to cause as much damage as possible before the inevitable. Travers' stash of holy water in his pocket drove it back from himself, but it had still taken a cooperative effort from all of them to give Buffy her opening.  
  
She'd ordered the Councilmen back to the hotel while she continued patrolling, citing their injuries and relative inexperience at what she called "hard core vampire fun and games." The skill of the two vampires obviously worried her, and she wanted to investigate further without having comparative civilians to slow her down. She seemed most concerned about the pair being from out of town, as evidenced by their speaking French.  
  
"If the Hellmouth's becoming a vacation destination, then I'm going to have some serious words with some travel agencies," she'd declared as she proceeded off into the darkness.  
  
He'd heard his men complaining about their aches and pains as the elevator door had closed behind him. Poor fellows, despite all their training, they weren't best pleased at being so obviously outclassed by a tiny girl. At least the head of the Council was expected to be so ... hands-on in his own duties. Still, he mused as he slid his key card through the lock on his door, a hot bath would be very pleasant.  
  
He locked the door behind him, but just as he was reaching for the light he smelled whiskey.  
  
"Hello, Quentin."  
  
His right thumb pressed the hidden button on the head of his walking stick as his left hand dove into his jacket pocket. The end of his cane fell off, revealing a foot of hardened, tapered ash wood. He held up the silver crucifix from his pocket as he spun and fell back against the door.  
  
The lamp on the desk clicked on, showing an open bottle of superb single malt and a smiling vampire in the chair.  
  
"Rupert," he gasped, fighting his pounding heart.  
  
Rupert Giles raised his glass. "Welcome back to the Hellmouth, Quentin."  
  
Travers knew better than to ask how Rupert had gotten into the room: any first year student at the Watchers' academy knew that public accommodations were no protection from vampires. He also knew better than to ask how Rupert had gotten into the locked desk drawer where that bottle of whiskey had been: lockpicking was one of the lesser skills he had picked up during his sojourn in the seedy side of London.  
  
It was appalling how innocuous Rupert Giles looked. His clothing was respectable, if uniformly dark, and his expression was mild as he poured a splash of whiskey into another glass. Then he glanced up, and the faint smile was sardonic and the chilly eyes sparkled with cruel amusement.  
  
"Join me in a glass?" he asked courteously, waving at a nearby chair. "We have so much to catch up on."  
  
Travers had recovered his wits. "I'll stay here, thank you."  
  
Rupert shrugged and sipped from his glass. "Pity. This is excellent whiskey. From your estate in Scotland?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
He leaned back in his chair and studied Travers. "You look like you've been dragged through thorn bushes, Quentin. What have you been doing?"  
  
"Patrolling with the Slayer. Rather a lot of activity tonight."  
  
Rupert raised a mild eyebrow. "Not my doing, I assure you."  
  
"No," Travers agreed, "Miss Summers assured me that you and your . . . associates keep a low profile."  
  
"What sort of activity?" Rupert asked with a bit more interest.  
  
"By the end of it, four bodies in the park with bites from multiple vampires. We encountered two vampires who showed more skill than usual, and it was a bit of a fight to finish them."  
  
"Is Buffy all right?"  
  
Travers studied him for a moment. "She's fine. A bit bruised, but she seemed to think that was nothing."  
  
Rupert shook his head. "She always did." When he met Travers' eyes again, the chilly vampire look was diluted with painfully familiar humor. "I know why you're here."  
  
"I imagine it's obvious."  
  
"I'm not going to make it easy on you."  
  
"That was rather obvious as well." Travers made no move to lower either the crucifix or his cane. "And no matter how hard you try to convince me that you're still Rupert Giles, I know my godson died months ago."  
  
Rupert looked away again. "There are differing theories . . ."  
  
"None I hold to."  
  
Silence held for several moments. "What have you told my father?" Rupert asked quietly, studying the lamp.  
  
"That you died and that there was no body to send home to England."  
  
The vampire's mouth twisted in a sardonic smile. "I'm sure he'll know what to make of that euphemism." He tossed back the rest of his whiskey and got decisively to his feet. Before he got more than a step from his chair, Travers pushed the crucifix towards him. Rupert turned his face away quickly. "Damn."  
  
Travers looked thoughtful. "Why does that work?"  
  
"Excuse me?" Rupert asked, still shielding his eyes.  
  
"The cross. Why does it drive you away?"  
  
Rupert stared, then laughed. "Ah, Watchers." He gave Travers a predatory grin. "I could write you a paper. Imagine a whole series on vampiric phenomenon studied first hand."  
  
The mind of a Watcher actually paused to consider the idea, then sense caught up with him. "I doubt the Council would approve your research fees."  
  
"No, I imagine not." Rupert gestured at the door. "If you'll step aside, I'll make your evening easier by leaving. I imagine you're anxious to get those scratches seen to." His smile twitched again at Travers' look of confusion. "I can smell you bleeding."  
  
Travers adjusted his grip on his cane as he moved towards the wardrobe, where his anti-vampire supplies were. He knew he wouldn't have time to get to them if Rupert attacked, but at least he could make the effort.  
  
Rupert waited till Travers was out of easy reach before going to the door. He paused with a hand on the doorknob. "I suppose telling you to go home is futile."  
  
"Yes."  
  
His face twisted into demonic angles. Travers flinched, and Rupert chuckled. "Our next meeting won't be so pleasant."  
  
Travers waited till he could speak calmly. "I know. Thank you." The inhuman face gave him a puzzled look. "For removing any doubts."  
Puzzlement faded to understanding, and the familiar face of Rupert Giles reappeared. A flicker of sadness appeared through the predatory amusement. "You're welcome." He opened the door and left quietly.  
  
Travers waited for at least five minutes before dropping the cane and going to lock the door. A quick check outside the peephole showed no one in the hall. Shaking, he went to the telephone on the desk. It took three tries before he could pry his fingers from around the crucifix so he could work the phone.  
  
The telephone in his mens' room was answered quickly. "Allenby, tell Perkins to bring his kit down to my room. I need a ward on my door. And tell him to be careful, Rupert Giles is in the building. Oh, and Allenby. Call London. See if they've changed their minds on back-up." Travers stared at the whiskey glasses on his desk. "As soon as the Slayer is out of town, we move." 


	4. Chapter 4

Xander woke up.

If what he remembered of the day before was accurate, this was something remarkable.

He blinked, then dragged his hand free of the blankets to reach for his neck. Bandage. Sore to the touch. Twisting his hand around, he felt the other side. Pulse. Strong. Fast, though. He dropped his hand with a sigh of relief. Then he noticed the IV jack taped to the back of his hand and the tube running to a plastic bag of liquid on a rack next to the bed.

His surroundings finally registered. Hospital bed, hospital room. And abruptly his body caught up with his mind and delivered the bill of complaints.

Through the swamping wave of pain, he catalogued things. His head was balanced on a pressure point between explosion and melting. His neck throbbed with every heartbeat. And his arm felt like--well, it felt like he'd sliced it open with a broken whiskey bottle.

"Oh, you stupid fuck," he moaned.

"Excuse me?" came from the doorway.

He started to look, then whimpered helplessly as his head decided on explosion.

The nurse in the doorway clucked sympathetically. "Sorry to scare you, honey," she said. "Do you need something for discomfort?"

Fortunately, he could only stare at her in disbelief. She nodded and disappeared. Xander concentrated on not moving for the several minutes it took for her to return. He accepted the little paper cup of pills gratefully and tipped them into his mouth carefully.

"Here's your water," the nurse said, handing him a covered mug with a bendy straw. "You gave us quite a scare, honey. Thank God there are still Good Samaritans in this town who are willing to stop for the injured and bring them to help."

Xander managed to look at her without dying. "Good Samaritan?"

"Oh, you probably don't remember." She pulled an electronic thermometer out of her carry-all and stuck the end in his ear. "A man carried you in last night, said you'd been attacked by a dog pack or something and he found you by the road."

"A man."

"Um hm. And it's a lesson to me not to judge people by their appearance. He sure struck me as someone more likely to pass on by rather than stop to help. But he was surely worried about you, cursing and ordering everyone to take good care of you--as if we wouldn't without being told." She jotted his temperature on her notepad. "Then he just up and disappeared, didn't even stay to see if you were going to be all right--which you are," she added quickly, misinterpreting the look on Xander's face. "That young man saved your life, getting you here." She put her fingertips on his right wrist and looked at her watch.

Xander stared at the wall, trying to reassemble his memories and his reasoning functions. He remembered yellow eyes at far too close a range. He remembered an upper lip pulling back from ugly fangs. He remembered thinking vaguely, "So that's what it feels like," then nothing. Why was he still alive?

"That looks good," the nurse said, patting his wrist. Xander finally noticed her nametag, which said Rose. She peered at the bandage on his neck, then the one wrapped around his left arm. "We should change those soon. I'll get someone from Wound Care to come in and show you how to take care of those, but they should heal soon."

"OK," he said, but only because she looked like she was expecting some sort of answer.

"All right, then. Is there anything I can get for you before I go?"

"Um, where's the phone?"

"Let me get that. Is there someone you can call? We checked our records when you were brought in, but the number for your emergency contact doesn't work anymore."

Xander frowned a moment, then remembered. Giles had been his emergency contact. "Yeah, I should update that."

Rose put the telephone on the adjustable wheely table and moved it within reach. "You go ahead and call whoever you need to. I'll be back in a little bit with the blood pressure cuff to see how you're doing. You were down a couple of pints when you came in." She patted his leg and bustled out of the room.

Xander rested his hand on top of the phone. Who should he call? Who did he want to tell, "Hi, I'm in the hospital after having being munched by a vampire, come get me"? He really didn't want to listen to the scared/scolding babble from Willow or the guilty/scolding lecture from Buffy. He could just skip the whole scolding thing altogether.

But, really, what was he going to say? That he'd decided his life sucked so much that he turned himself into a whiskey-flavored, blood-filled bonbon and went looking for vampires? Or that he took it into his head to try his hand at heroism and played the Zeppo yet again? So not conducive to avoiding lectures either way. The very fact he wasn't dead was going to cause questions, too.

Why wasn't he dead? After all of Spike's lectures and declarations of evil, once he had his fangs in Xander's throat--cue the full-body shudder of horror--why didn't he finish the job? Unless, along with everything else, Xander wasn't worth killing, either. Not even good enough to be an easy dinner.

Still, suicide. He'd never sunk that low, before. During the last fight with Glory, he hadn't consciously thought that dying would be good. He just knew that he'd done everything he could for everyone he could, and, whatever happened, he was satisfied. The fear had gone away, and he remembered peace.

How many bottles of whiskey had he gone through, anyway? And why did he know which liquor stores in town didn't care how old you were so long as your money was good? Heck, Spike should have finished him off just for the buzz.

He reached up and gently touched the bandage on his throat, then looked at the wrappings on his arm. Spike had bound that up. Swearing the whole time, of course, but he'd bandaged Xander up all the same. And sat and talked to him. When was the last time someone had actually sat down next to him and expressed interest in the contents of his head? God, was this what his life had become, favored entertainment on a slow TV night for a vampire?

Painfully, he worked himself up to a sitting position, then swung around to try and stand up. No way in hell was he peeing into a bottle. The world played pinball with him for a moment, then he steadied and went about his business. He contemplated his face in the mirror and was pleased that while he looked like shit, at least it was shit warmed over.

He studied his reflection, wondering if he'd find the idiot that lived behind his eyes. Who would they have called to identify his body? His parents? His ID listed his apartment, where no one would have answered. Would he have laid unclaimed until Willow found him in one of her trolls through the coroner's computer looking for vampire victims? Would they have noticed him missing before then? Or would they have figured it out when he appeared at Willow's door asking her to let him in?

Spike had hinted at turning him. He probably wanted an eternity to think of new and involved ways to pay Xander back for everything. Instead, Spike hadn't even killed him. Had dragged him to the hospital and ordered them to take care of him. Had saved him. Why? He wasn't worth killing, but he was worth saving?

Nurse Rose came in and caught him staring blankly at the mirror. "You're not supposed to be up yet! Get back in that bed, young man!"

Xander went. "I had to go to the bathroom."

"Hmph. Did you save it?"

"Excuse me?"

"There's a jug in there, we need to know how your outputs are."

"Uh, no. I did not save it."

"What color was it?"

As she asked embarrassing questions about his bodily functions and took his blood pressure, Xander mulled over Spike saving him. He remembered Spike trying to come up with something encouraging and smiled at the idea of the Big Bad playing crisis counselor.

Was Spike saving him for a better run later? Was killing a drunken, depressed person too boring to bother with? Or ...

He crept up on the thought carefully, fighting his automatic reactions. Stalker!Spike was apparently the only one who was paying enough attention to him to notice him falling. Xander wanted to dismiss the vampire's concern as purely part of a mindgame, but these moments kept happening: back at the convent, there in the cemetery. What the hell did Spike see that Xander's alleged friends didn't notice? What bit of Xander's existence inspired Spike to make sure he lived? What was he missing?

Nurse Rose patted his shoulder. "Your blood pressure looks good, honey. We'll get the Wound Care people in, then the doctor, and we'll see about getting you home. You're going to be fine."

"Thanks, nurse."

She went on her way, and Xander leaned back, impatient to be out. He needed answers. He needed a change of clothes. He needed a bath. And a meal. He hadn't bothered eating last night, not being very hungry in any case.

He decided he wasn't going to say anything to any of the others about "death by vampires". Foolhardiness or carelessness would be accepted as the reason for his wounds. It would be his secret that he still heard that defeated voice in the bottom of his mind, the one that said, "Tonight we go to Willie's and insult the thing with the most arms we can find." But it was just a voice, not a compulsion.

He got back to his feet and went in search of his clothes. A man always felt more secure in his own underwear. He paused to look in the mirror again. There was still a haggard, hungover idiot looking back at him. And, yes, that face shared more features with his father than he liked. That didn't excuse last night. Yes, the Hellmouth would destroy him one of these days. No reason to let it think he was going to make it easy.

In the end, Xander decided to call Mrs. Summers. That would involve Buffy, but Joyce wouldn't let her yell at him too much. He would have just walked home, but the blood loss had left him just that far on the other side of lightheaded that he didn't quite dare.

The little suicidal voice inside chirped, "You could call Spike for a ride. It's his fault, after all." It was the pain pills, really.

The call to the Summers house went pretty much as scripted, with Buffy answering the phone and reacting as expected to Xander's explanation. He tuned her out the way he used to tune out his mother, making all the right self-deprecating responses admitting his foolishness and his dumb luck. Still, she said they'd come get him just as soon as they could. He laid in the hospital bed and missed Anya, who always panicked at human ailments, then bustled around doing her efficient, impatient best to make the sufferer feel better.

The full Summers contingent arrived surprisingly quickly. Dawn outmaneuvered everyone else and hit Xander with a full-throttle hug. "You are not supposed to get hurt!" she said into his neck. "That's Buffy's job."

"Dawn!" Joyce protested. Buffy rolled her eyes.

Xander hugged Dawn back carefully, then set her back on her feet. Dawn studied the bandage on his neck. "So, did you get him?" she asked.

He put on his best grin and touched the bandage. "At this range, how could I miss?"

"What's important is that you're all right," Joyce said briskly. "Are you free to go?" She looked around the hospital room a little nervously.

Xander abruptly realized that she might not be at all happy to be back in a hospital after her own illness. "Mrs. Summers, I'm sorry, you probably don't want to be here, do you."

She managed a smile. "It's not someplace I'd put on my list of favorite places, but ..." The smile lost some of the tension. "I walked in on my own two feet and I'm leaving on my own two feet, so it's not so bad."

"Can I push your wheelchair?" Dawn asked eagerly.

The nurses wouldn't let Dawn push the wheelchair out to the Land Rover, but she did carry the bag of Xander's personal possessions, which consisted of his wallet and his keys. Xander had thrown his shirt in the hospital trash when he saw the bloodstains on the collar, leaving him feeling overexposed in his undershirt.

Buffy stared at his bandaged arm, protected from jostling in a blue nylon sling. Eventually she just sighed and gave Xander a frustrated look.

"Gotta let us leave the nest eventually, mom," he told her.

"I know, it's just . . ."

Joyce handed Buffy the keys. "Would you bring the car around, sweetheart?"

Happily distracted, Buffy took the keys and jogged out the hospital doors. Xander watched her go, then looked at Joyce.

"You're letting her drive?" he asked in disbelief.

"She's getting much better," Joyce protested.

"She's been practicing so she can drive us to the beach this weekend," Dawn added.

"You're going to the beach?" Xander blinked. "Buffy's taking a vacation?"

"Just a couple of days," Joyce said. "It'll be nice to get away."

"You deserve a vacation."

She put a hand on his shoulder. "So do you."

He shrugged, though not enough to dislodge her hand. They were distracted by Buffy pulling up at the curb and squealing the brakes so she wouldn't hit the car parked in front of her. Buffy pulled herself up on the wheel as far as she could to peer over the hood of the Land Rover, then she obviously sighed in relief.

Xander looked at Dawn. "So, when do you get your learner's permit?"

Dawn sighed deeply. "Not till I'm fifteen. But they sometimes make exceptions if there's family need," she added, giving her mother a hopeful look.

Joyce smiled. "But there isn't need. I should be driving again by the end of the year."

Dawn's shoulders slumped.

They drove to Xander's pharmacy for his painkillers and antibiotics. He found a rack of heavily discounted "Welcome to Sunnydale! Stay awhile!" t-shirts, bought the last one in his size, turned it inside out, and pulled it on before leaving the store. He pretended not to notice Dawn's pout of disappointment and told himself he was completely imagining any other such looks on anyone else nearby. Especially the ones on the faces of Mrs. Summers and the guy filling the Coca-Cola vending machine.

He carefully re-situated his bandaged arm in its sling before climbing into the Land Rover. "So that should be everything. You can take me home now and be rid of me." Buffy pulled out and headed for the street, conscientiously checking every mirror and all directions.

"Certainly," Joyce nodded. "Our home."

"Excuse me?"

"We're not letting you go back to your apartment by yourself--unless someone will be coming by to look in on you," she added delicately.

"Well, no," he admitted. "But, really, that's OK. I'm just going to go home, get as much of a shower as I can, then go to bed. I'll be fine."

"And what are you going to have for dinner tonight?"

Xander had to admit to being outmaneuvered on that one. He didn't think admitting to the stash of frozen burritos would win many "taking care of the recently hospitalized" points. "I could order a pizza." He flinched at Joyce's scowl.

"Xander Harris, you are not having pizza the night after you're released from the hospital," she said firmly. "You are coming home with us, and you're going to have a good, healthy dinner before we let you go home."

"I was really hoping to get a shower and a change of clothes." The shirt had been the worst of it, but these were the same jeans he'd worn yesterday at the construction site, and the tussle with Spike hadn't done them any good.

"You're fine. We're all family, we don't mind."

"Besides," Dawn said, "we can lend you--no, wait, we can't, can we. We don't have any guy stuff. Or any girl stuff big enough. Huh. You are the only guy really hanging around any more, aren't you." She winced at the implications of that sentence and settled back in her seat to let the subject die.

"I can't fight all of you," Xander said with his best attempt at gallantry. "I'm going to your house."

"Excellent," Joyce nodded.

By the time they reached Revello Drive, he was starting to feel a little tired, so he accepted the offer of the couch for a brief lie-down. A large, vague, dark time later, he slowly woke to gentle tugging on his hair. He cracked his eyes open to see Willow sitting on the floor next to the couch, her eyes huge with worry as she fussed with his hair.

She pulled her hand back. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"No, it's--" His mouth seized up with disgusting dryness, but he barely noticed for the burning aches in his arm and neck. "Ow."

"Oh! Here." Willow picked up a glass of water and two pills from the coffee table. "As long as you've been out, it's time for these."

He let her help him with the water glass, then settled back to await the miracles of modern bio-chemistry. "Hey," he managed, squinting his eyes against the light.

"Hey." She put the glass back on the table, then returned to fidgeting with his hair. "Don't get munched," she whispered. "I couldn't stand it if you got munched."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You shouldn't be out there anyway to get munched on. Big strong guy still isn't a match for the vampires."

"I know. Really. I do."

"Then why were you--"

"Willow, don't." He closed his eyes against the earnest worry on her face. She did it because she loved him, he knew that. "Please, don't. It was just a thing that happened. It won't happen again."

She frowned, then Tara came in. "Honey, dinner's about ready. Oh, hi, Xander."

"Hey, Tara. Food, huh? Thank god." He got himself sitting up, then standing, leaning on Willow's shoulder when his head wobbled.

Dinner conversation revolved around the coming school year. Dawn lamented the onset of trig, while Willow tried to convince her that higher mathematics were a good thing. Xander let the school talk wash over him, just happy to be with his girls. He saw Joyce watching him a couple of times, but she didn't say anything. He managed to strangle the "Buffy and Dawn are so fucking lucky" thought before it got too maudlin.

He tried to help with the dishes when they were done eating, but repeated statements of "People just out of the hospital should rest" finally got him to sit in the living room, contemplating the television. He aborted his reach for the remote when Tara sat down next to him.

"Come to keep the patient company?"

She smiled, but didn't say anything. After a brief fidget with the fabric of her skirt, Tara glanced towards the kitchen, then moved closer to Xander. "Have--have you noticed anything ... different about Willow?"

Xander blinked for several moments. "Willow? You're asking me about Willow?"

Tara nodded quickly. "You've known her the longest. Has she seemed like she's acting ... odd?"

"Odd how?"

"If I tell you, it might bias you. Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary about her in the past few weeks?"

He shrugged. "I haven't really seen her to have the opportunity to notice anything."

"That--would be part of it." She glanced at the kitchen again, where Joyce, Dawn, Buffy and Willow were taking care of the dinner dishes. "She goes off to places without really telling me where she's been. I--think she goes out sometimes after I'm asleep."

Xander didn't want to consider the obvious first option that came to him. "Do you want me to say anything to her?"

"No! No. I'm probably wrong about it being anything . . . important." Tara shook her head. "So, how are you feeling? You're going to take a couple of days off work, aren't you?"

"Yeah, that won't be a problem," he managed to say without sounding too bitter.

They both jumped at the sound of boots on the porch, and then a knock on the front door.

"Was that the door?" Buffy called from the kitchen.

"Yeah," Xander said, getting up. "I'm checking."

To his surprise--and relief--it wasn't Spike at the door. An almost-familiar, tall, slender, dark-haired man in wire-rimmed glasses peered back at the spyhole. Xander opened the door. "Hello."

The man smiled politely. "Good evening, Xander."

"Do I know you?"

"Excuse me?"

"Wait--are you related to Wesley Wyndam-Pryce?"

The man thought a moment. "No," he finally said, though he was smiling a bit.

"Oh, you're both doofuses." And that was the incomparable Cordelia Chase, who squeezed past the mysterious stranger into the doorway. "Xander, Wesley. Wesley, Xander. And how can you not be related to yourself?" she asked Wesley.

"Oh, he's not," Xander protested, looking at the man with the leather jacket, battered jeans and boots, and calmly amused smile. "When did Wesley get cool?"

Cordelia rolled her eyes as Wesley fought a laugh. "Is there an actual Summers in the house so we can do this properly, and not like a home invasion?"

Xander felt sick. "Since when do you need an invitation, Cordy?"

She glared at him, then reached through the doorway to aim a smack at his head. Her hand froze when she saw the bandage on his neck. She looked down at his arm, and when she looked back up he was startled to see what looked like real shock and concern in her eyes. "Xander?" she said in a terribly unCordy tone of voice.

"I'm OK, Cordy," he reassured her. It was weird to feel a little of the old buzz in his brain from having Cordelia Chase look at him like he was somehow important. Then he had an armful of former cheerleader, and he remembered how much easier it was to hug tall girls.

Buffy came out of the kitchen. "Cordelia?"

Cordelia pushed herself free of Xander's arms, and Xander graciously ignored her rapid eye-wipe. She gave him a smile, then turned. "Hi, Buffy, sorry we didn't call but somebody said we were in a hurry." She glared out the open door. "As if we all don't have working cell phones."

Everyone else came out of the kitchen as well. "Cordelia!" Dawn squealed, and she ran for a hug. Cordelia squeezed her tight, then stepped back to look at her.

"My god, you've sprouted. You're definitely going to be model-height. And your hair is gorgeous--" She paused and stared at Dawn. "And this is the first time I've ever laid eyes on you, isn't it?"

Dawn hesitated, then nodded. Cordelia's smile seemed to reassure her. "What do you remember about me?" she asked eagerly.

Cordelia thought a moment, then her grin widened. "I remember you coming up to me one time when we were all here, and you said Buffy wouldn't show you how to be pretty and I was prettier than her anyway and would I show you how to be pretty."

"Yes! I remember that!"

Buffy gasped in outrage. "Dawn, you didn't! Did you?"

"Hey, I was twelve. And maybe it was true." Dawn stuck her tongue out at her sister.

Buffy almost stuck her tongue out in return, then obviously remembered she was supposed to be the grown-up. She glared at Cordelia, who only smiled back.

"I wonder if that memory existed before this moment or not?" Wesley said thoughtfully. "I don't remember thinking specifically about Dawn at any point on the trip up, but now I have several memories of her. What a fascinating piece of magic."

Dawn winced. "I remember being mean to you, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. Sorry."

He smiled and waved a hand. "Quite all right, Dawn. You were in good company." Everyone else in the room winced, and Wesley glanced at them with a knowing look that said he'd meant that exactly the way it sounded. His smile lost the edge when he saw Joyce. "Mrs. Summers, I apologize for invading like this. It's wonderful to see you looking so well."

"Thank you," Joyce said, looking a little bemused.

Cordelia looked around for Willow. "You said she was sick. This is not a sick woman. I only hope I look half that good at that age--um . . ." She gave Joyce a sheepish smile.

Joyce laughed. "Won't you all come in and sit down?" She looked over Wesley's shoulder at the man fidgeting in the doorway. "Hello."

Wesley tsked. "Come in already, Gunn. Joyce Summers, Charles Gunn, he's with us in L.A."

Gunn walked in slowly, maneuvering carefully around furniture and looking like he wanted a wall at his back. "Ma'am," he nodded to Joyce.

She held out her hand. "Hello, Mr. Gunn." He shook her hand gingerly.

Buffy looked around at the group. "So this is everybody?" she asked casually.

Wesley glanced at the doorway, then back at Buffy. "He's waiting outside," he told her quietly. "He didn't want to just--appear at the door without warning."

She looked at the door, then at her mother. At Joyce's nod, Buffy went outside.

Willow filled the sudden silence. "So, what brings you guys up to Sunnydale?"

"We'd best wait for Buffy to come back for that," Wesley said. "We should get Giles in on this, as well. I'm afraid I don't have his telephone number, though. Could one of you call him?"

"We'd--better wait for Buffy before we get into that," Willow said uncomfortably.

Gunn took advantage of attention being elsewhere to find a nice corner to retreat into. The one already occupied by the only other guy in the room suited. He took up a carefully calculated position just out of arm's reach of the stranger and nodded politely. The young man nodded back, then winced slightly and reached up to the bandage on his neck.

"I hate vampire bites," Gunn said sympathetically. "They always get infected. Still, you chase rats, you get bit." He held out his hand. "Charles Gunn."

He got an easy grin in return. "Xander Harris. You work for Deadboy, huh?"

"Deadboy?"

"Angel."

Gunn blinked. "You call him that to his face?"

"Every chance I get."

Gunn shook his head. "I don't think I'll give it a try. You part of the Slayer's back-up, then?"

Xander sighed. "Yeah, I'm designated donut-fetcher, bad guy distractor, and general target. What about you?"

"I hit things."

Xander nodded. "Good work when you can get it."

Buffy closed the door behind her when she stepped out onto the porch. "Angel?"

A dark shape crouching at the foot of the tree in the front yard straightened. Angel stepped into the light from porch lamp, but he stayed on the sidewalk. "Hello, Buffy."

"So you brought the whole gang with you this time."

"They insisted." Angel looked down at the cigarette butt in his fingers. "I see Spike's still hanging around."

"Yeah." She crossed her arms in front of herself, rubbing her arms to get warm. "He likes to pretend he's protecting Mom and Dawn."

"You do know, don't you . . ."

"About the chip? Yeah, we know. He's--it's complicated."

"Generally is, with him."

"How did you find out? Is that why you're here, because the chip's out?"

"No, it's--well, it is about Spike but it's not about the chip."

They stared at each other for several moments, then Buffy finally smiled a little. "Your invitation's still good. Come on in, tell us what's going on."

Willow slipped back into the kitchen while Dawn was catching Cordelia up on all the news and Wesley was being charming to Joyce as he interrogated her on the endgame with Glory. The nervous black man who had come with Cordelia and Wesley was still lurking with Xander on the far side of the room. She made for the phone as soon as she was clear of possible watching eyes and dialed quickly.

"Please leave a message at the beep," said the anonymous telephone services voice.

"Blast," Willow muttered. "OK. Giles, it's Willow. I don't know if it's a big deal or not, but Angel and all his people just showed up. They haven't said why they're here, but I thought you'd want to know, so, um, be careful. Um, bye."

She hung up the phone, turned, and squeaked when she saw Tara in the doorway. Tara looked puzzled. "How long have you had his phone number?"

"Um, a while. I thought, you know, just in case--Anya shouldn't be the only one who knows how to get in touch with him."

Tara shrugged a little. "Makes sense. But--were you--warning him? About these new people?"

"He and Angel--don't have a good history together. It seems only fair to let Giles know."

Tara looked a little confused as Willow joined her. "I thought Angel was a good guy now. Shouldn't we be warning him about Mr. Giles instead of the other way around?"

"It's complicated."

When Tara's back was turned, Willow hurried over to her backpack in the corner of the dining room. She dug through several pockets before she found the sprig of herb she was looking for. Stroking the herb with one finger, she murmured Latin over it, then softly said, "Forget." The herb crumbled to dust. Brushing her hands off, she joined Tara in the doorway. Tara took her hand and snuggled against her shoulder.

"So that's Cordelia," she said.. "She seems nice enough."

"She's changed."

Everyone found a seat or lurking spot in the Summers living room. When Angel had followed Buffy in, Dawn had squeaked very faintly and retreated to her mother's side as quickly as an attempt at being cool would let her. Angel stopped just inside the door. Buffy gave him a sad, understanding smile and joined her sister.

Cordelia gave Dawn a sympathetic grin and joined Wesley on the couch. Across the coffee table, Joyce sat in her comfiest support chair. Willow and Tara hovered in the doorway to the dining room, while Gunn and Xander continued to lurk with intent.

Buffy nodded decisively. "So what brings you guys to Sunnydale?"

Angel started to speak, then looked at Wesley, who nodded and spoke. "We recently had a visit from a very old vampire who thought we'd be interested in certain political developments in the Order of Aurelius. They have decided to finally chose a replacement for the Master as head of the Order."

"How does that involve Sunnydale?" Buffy asked.

"Their chief candidate is here to make a name for herself, something spectacular to make her famous in the vampire world."

"Like killing the longest surviving Slayer?"

Willow gasped. "Or opening the Hellmouth."

Wesley shook his head. "Nothing that dramatic. This is internal vampire politics." He smiled at Buffy. "And while a Slayer would be impressive, the Order has seen thousands of Slayers." He ignored Buffy's incompletely masked look of offense. "What Fleur de Mal is trying to do is increase her own reputation while simultaneously harming the reputation of others."

"What he's trying to say," Cordelia interrupted, "is this woman is here to play 'High Noon' with Spike. She's going to call him out and prove she's tougher."

Buffy blinked in disbelief. "Spike? She's going to prove she's the best candidate to take over the whole Order of Aurelius by taking out Spike?"

Angel came forward a step. "I know it's hard to imagine, once you've dealt with Spike's immaturity and obnoxious habits and short attention span and--" He shook himself. "Sorry. As much as I hate admitting that Spike is competent at anything, even before he came here he was notorious. If he hadn't cared more about music and Dru and night life, he could have controlled Lower Manhattan. At least three times vampires tried to get him on their side during power plays, then decided he must be after the power himself when he told them to sod off."

"He is the only existing vampire with two Slayers to his, well, record," Wesley added. "The fact that he destroyed the Anointed One, the Master's heir apparent, when he took over the Hellmouth doesn't hurt either. Spike is considered the embodiment of all the characteristics of the line of Angelus."

"Oh, he is not!" Angel protested.

Cordelia snickered, but Wesley kept his smile restrained. "I don't believe you get a say anymore, Angel. In any case, Fleur de Mal is not only after Spike himself, but the entire symbolism of the line of Angelus. Angel himself is a non-entity in vampiric eyes, and Drusilla is apparently disregarded. If Fleur de Mal can destroy Spike, she reduces the line of Angelus to minor figures and stories of yesteryear, and she becomes the emblem of the future."

The Scoobies glanced at each other uneasily. Buffy looked at Angel. "So . . . Spike's the last of the line, huh?"

Angel nodded. "He and Dru are the last of any name. Anyone else is of little note and won't be remembered. Which is just as well. The last thing I want is talented new blood to make things worse." He looked around at the uncomfortable fidgeting. "What?"

Finally Xander shrugged. "Congratulations, Grandpa, it's a boy."

Angel glared at Xander. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Buffy cleared her throat nervously. "It means that Drusilla was in town a few months ago, and . . ."

The annoyance downshifted to dismay. "Dru--" Angel glanced back at Xander, then to Buffy. "She turned somebody?" Buffy nodded but didn't meet his eyes. "Who?"

It took Buffy a couple of tries to find her voice, and she was fighting tears when she looked up. "Giles," she whispered.

Angel stared at her, then the front door creaked in protest as he quickly left.

"Giles?" Wesley whispered in horror.

Cordelia swallowed. "Giles is dead--undead--oh . . ." She was blinking very quickly. "Giles isn't Giles anymore?"

Buffy shook her head silently, wiping the tears off her cheeks.

Gunn leaned over to Xander. "Who's Giles?"

"Buffy's Watcher."

"Man . . ."

Wesley glared at Buffy. "You said this was a few months ago?"

She blinked at his sharp tone. "Yes. In the middle of the Glory mess."

"That's more than a few! And you never thought to tell us in all the time since?"

"We were busy! And you weren't here anymore, anyway."

He gave her a very cold look. "Yes, notifying people that a friend and colleague has passed away is a terrible burden on the social schedule." He pinched his nose hard. "Mrs. Summers, I'm sor--excuse me." He got up and headed for the front door himself.

"Wes?" Cordelia protested, but the door closed decisively behind him. She stared after him, losing the battle against the tears she was fighting.

Xander pushed away from the wall, but Gunn got there first, sitting down next to Cordelia. "Hey, you're not going to get any commercials with your eyes all messed up with crying." She obviously tried to come up with a snappy comeback, then let him pull her into his shoulder so she could hide her face.

Out on the front lawn, Angel found the shadows under the trees. He closed his eyes, using all his willpower to keep from sliding into gameface.

A good man, a strong, brave man had died at the hands of a creature Angel had created. Worse, that good man had been twisted to evil, the very evil he had spent his life fighting. And Angel fought with all his strength to keep from giving in to his demon's delight.

He nearly turned when the front door opened and closed, then he recognized the scent. Wesley ran down the front steps, then stopped on the sidewalk. He took a slow, deep breath, then began swearing in that quiet, cultured voice that made profanity sound twice as obscene.

He had gone through a dozen human languages and was starting on the demonic ones when he finally noticed Angel under the tree. "I'm dreadfully sorry, Angel," he said in his calm, furious voice. "I try not to do that where there are witnesses."

"It's OK, Wes."

Wesley glared at the lighted window, then took another deep breath. "Are you all right?"

For a change, Angel decided on honesty. "No. My god, Giles . . ."

"I know Buffy and the others despised me, but I thought that had changed enough that they wouldn't ignore me in a situation like this. To have this happen to a Watcher . . ."

"It explains why Willow's emails have sounded off."

Wesley nodded, then looked at Angel. "There's something more upsetting you. What is it?"

Angel leaned against a tree. "I should have made sure that I killed Darla and Drusilla. It's my fault that she's around to do things like this."

"She's a creature of free will, Angel. A parent is not responsible for his child's crimes."

"I know. That's not the worst of it, Wes." He saw Wesley's concerned look out of the corner of his eye. "The worst of it is, part of me is just so damned proud of her."

"Proud?"

"I don't want to be! But--how did she get that close to him? He wasn't some rookie who had never seen a vampire before. She should never have been able to get the drop on him."

Wesley frowned. "She managed it before, though."

"He wasn't at his best that night," Angel said tightly.

"What do--oh, forgive me, Angel, I didn't mean--"

Angel made a sharp gesture and turned away. "I know you didn't. But it's not like I don't remember everything that happened whenever Giles gets mentioned. I'm damned amazed he let me stand in the same room with him ever again."

Wesley walked a few restless steps away, then back. "The Council will be appalled when they hear of this. The last time anything like this happened was a hundred and thirty years ago, and it took six years to track her down and finish her." He winced and shook his head. "Of all the people for it to happen to . . ."

"Of course, that's why they're here," Angel said abruptly. "That's who they were looking for, they already know."

Wesley blinked at him. "'They'?"

"The Council. They must already know about Giles. Travers said he and his men were looking for someone, but I just assumed they meant Spike now that the chip was out. Of course they'd come after Giles as soon as they found out." He made a disgusted noise. "Why the hell did Giles have to hook up with Spike of all people? My god, the two of them--" He suddenly noticed the outraged look Wesley was giving him. "Oh. I--didn't tell you about the Council being here, did I."

"No. You did not. Travers? Quentin Travers? The bloody head of the Council himself is here in Sunnydale? Right now?"

"They might have left."

Wesley broke the glare for a moment, then looked back. "Does Buffy know about this?"

"I don't know," Angel said quickly. "Should we ask?"

"Yes, I think we should." He glared a moment longer, then headed back for the front door.

Cordelia was blowing her nose and doing her best to smile bravely. Her smiles to Gunn and to Xander, who was lurking a little closer to the couch, were less forced.

"Wes, I honestly thought I told you," Angel said as he followed Wesley back inside. He closed the front door behind them.

Wesley shook his head. "It's irrelevant now, Angel, I'll just have to deal with it." He smiled at Cordelia. "How are you doing?"

"Not too bad. I'd be better if there weren't people having drama fits all over the place." She made sure to include Angel in her glare.

Wesley started to protest, then sighed. "Mrs. Summers, I apologize for my outburst. The news--was a shock."

Joyce nodded graciously. "I completely understand, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. It was a shock to us, too."

He turned to Buffy, who looked expectant. "Did you know the Council is in town?" he asked.

She blinked for a moment, then shook herself. "Yes, I did."

"Have they been here long?"

"A few weeks."

"That long?" Wesley frowned. "They are aware that Giles is associating with Spike, don't they?"

"Yeah. How did you know that?"

"That's Angel's part of the story."

Angel winced, then moved up next to Wesley. Xander stepped out of the way not quite slowly enough for it to look casual. Angel glared at him briefly, then noticed the bandage on Xander's neck. He frowned, then took a deep breath.

"Angel," Wesley said impatiently. "Please, can we focus on trying to figure out what's going on?"

"Yeah," Angel said, staring at Xander, who stared back at him. "That would be a good idea."

Gunn watched Wesley work the room: being politely attentive to Mrs. Summers, giving scolding glances to a chagrined Angel, patting teary-eyed Cordelia's hand, and pointedly not conceding anything to anyone else in the room.

He'd heard the stories from Cordy about the dorky, over-eager Wesley who first showed up. "Well- dressed and British and so very, very clueless." Over-eager Wesley still showed up occasionally, and Gunn found it very entertaining. But he didn't want that Wes showing up now, because these kids were obviously waiting for Wes to show some sign of weakness.

The tiny red-head in the doorway, Willow, looked scared and defensive and was holding tight to the hand of the tasty blonde with the sleepy eyes next to her. She was the one Cordy had been swapping emails with, and she clearly did not want to be answering any questions.

The guy, Xander, definitely did not like Angel, and he wasn't afraid to show it. He'd glared back eye to eye when Angel had given him the suspicious once over, and Angel had backed off first--though he'd pretended it was just to pay attention to Wesley.

Was it the little blond girl that was making Angel act weird? The ball of nervous energy on the short fuse who looked at the room like a general not too comfortable with her troops?

The Slayer. The one girl chosen etc.--except for that Faith business, which Gunn still wasn't too clear on except that she'd cut up Wesley and he wanted to have words with her on that. Though maybe words at a distance, if what they said about Slayers was true.

This Buffy girl looked like she hunted monsters every night. Her eyes had dead places in them. She stayed close to her mom and her sister, ready to jump in front of them to protect them--if she just knew what she was protecting them from. She kept shooting looks at Angel full of fear and want and frustration, and the big guy stared at her like every abandoned puppy dog on the curb who knew he'd never be able to go home.

The tension in the room was making him twitch. Cordy's grief, Wesley's annoyance, Angel's all- purpose angst--Gunn needed some air. He eased over to Angel.

"Hey, I'm going outside for a bit, get some breathing room. This is a tiny place."

Angel blinked a moment before focusing on Gunn. "Be careful out there. There's lots of monsters here."

Gunn grinned. "Well, I'm a bad-ass monster hunter from the big city, I can handle whatever Smalltown, USA, throws at me."

"Gunn, this is the Hellmouth, it's different."

"I'll go with him," Xander said, pushing away from the wall. "You don't need me for a strategy meeting." Angel grabbed his uninjured arm as he passed. Xander stopped, but he didn't look at Angel. "You want to take that hand away, Deadboy."

Angel lowered his voice. "Why did he let you go, Xander? Why didn't he kill you?"

Xander met Angel's eyes. "Maybe he learned mindgames from you." Angel flinched but didn't let go. "Take the hand away, Angel. I know where there's a stake within arm's reach."

"Angel?" Buffy said from across the room. "Xander?"

Angel looked over, and Xander pried up his thumb enough to pull free. He stepped out of reach quickly.

Buffy frowned. "What's going on?"

"Just renewing acquaintances, Buff," Xander said. He looked at Gunn. "You wanted a look at the Hellmouth? I'm your handy native guide."

"Yeah." Gunn checked the room, saw no one was going to protest who had any right to protest and nodded at Wes. Wesley nodded back, but most of his attention was on Angel, who was glowering silently. "Lead the way, native guide."

Xander took a deep breath as the Summers' front door closed behind him and Gunn and let it out very slowly.

"So you don't like Angel," Gunn said.

"What was your first clue?"

Gunn shrugged and headed to the sidewalk. "It's cool. Took me a while to get past the whole 'demon creature I usually stake without a worry' thing myself." He stopped by the convertible and reached into the back seat area to pull out his axe.

Xander studied the car. "Let me guess. Angel's car."

"Yep, his pride and joy."

"Vampire with a convertible. It figures." He suddenly grinned. "What's Wesley drive? A Volvo?"

Gunn let the grin out a little. "Motorcycle, most days. But he's looking at SUVs."

"Wesley rides a motorcycle?" He looked like he wanted to say more, but he just nodded instead. "What do you drive?"

"Got me a truck with search lights, stakes, and a big-ass crossbow mounted in back."

Xander frowned in thought. "That's a good idea. Mobile artillery. It'd be hard to get a truck into the cemeteries, but we ought to be able to rig something up. Huh." He glanced towards the house. "And what's Cordelia driving these days?"

Gunn shouldered his axe. "We don't let her drive. If she got a vision on the highway, it'd be all over."

"The visions are that bad?"

Gunn saw real worry on the kid's face. Somewhere in one of Cordy's monologues on "The cesspit that was my life in Sunnydale," she'd mentioned the loser she'd dated in between all the football captains and campus studs. Gunn had wondered if he'd imagined that bit of wistfulness in her voice when she talked about Xander Harris. Maybe he hadn't.

"We take care of her. We look out after each other. Nothing gets to her that hasn't gone through me, Wes, and Angel first."

Xander nodded. "Good. She deserves that."

They both looked around at the night for a change in subject, then Xander shrugged. "Hellmouth Tours, leaving the station." Gunn tossed him a couple of stakes, then fell into step next to him as they headed up the sidewalk.

After a few minutes walking along the quiet residential streets, Xander frowned at Gunn. "What's the matter?"

Gunn swore under his breath for being caught fidgeting. "Your town makes me a little edgy."

Xander nodded grimly. "Yeah, the Hellmouth does that. You may not even know it's there, but you can feel it in your head."

"Oh, it ain't that." He looked around at the carefully tended lawns and comfortable houses. "No offense, but this is the whitest place I have ever been. Wolfram & Hart didn't feel as Wonder Bread as this town."

"Hey, we've got a magic shop right downtown! For a hundred years we had a mayor who wanted to be a giant snake demon."

"OK, but how many folks you got getting arrested for walking while black?"

Xander shook his head and snickered. "Man, in Sunnydale, if somebody's worried about color, it's because the other guy is green or blue or something, not black."

Gunn stared at him doubtfully, then started laughing. "Yeah, you can take the brother off the street . . . Sorry, man. The night's a little quiet for me. Not enough sirens in the background."

Xander nodded. "No prob."

They walked on, still not seeing anything interesting. Xander cleared his throat. "So, back to the getting past Deadboy being one of the thingies in the night? Why'd you do it? Get past it, I mean."

"I get to fight the good fight." Gunn shrugged. "And he pays me."

"There's money in this gig?"

He laughed. "Has been known to be a few paychecks come our way. But you folks've got this holy duty thing, right?"

Xander gave a breath of a laugh. "Buffy has the holy duty. The rest of us--we got tired of seeing our high school classrooms get emptier and emptier."

Gunn nodded. "There was a nest of vamps near my neighborhood. They figured we were their pantry. Me and my crew, we disagreed."

"How'd you meet Angel?"

"He was nosing around our turf, we figured he was just another pointy-toothed freak, but he talked us out of dusting him."

"Damn," Xander muttered.

Gunn stared at him for a moment. "So what's your bitch with him?"

"You met Angelus yet?"

"The evil twin? Nah, but Wes and Cordy've told me stories."

"The one where he murdered a nice lady and left her corpse in the bed of the guy who loved her? Or the one where he snuck into our homes at night and left us little calling cards saying he'd been there and the only reason he hadn't killed us while we slept was because he wasn't tired of his game yet? Or the one where he tortured Giles into giving up the information on how to try and end the world?"

"Yeah," Gunn said evenly. "I heard those." He looked back towards Revello Drive. "Wait--is that the same Giles . . ."

Xander nodded. "Yeah. I don't think Angel's looking forward to the family reunion."

"That was Angelus, though--"

"They're the same guy! Just because Buffy's in love with the big, sad-eyed jerk, we have to forget what he did to us. Well, some of us can't."

Gunn stopped walking. "Dude. I work with him near every day. Yeah, I've got issues with him, but I've seen the man work. He's trying." He looked at the stubborn face of the young man next to him, then he looked at the bandages again. "Does this have anything to do with what you and Angel were pissing at each other about before we left?"

Xander glared at him. "Angel does not get to just ride in here with his posse and pretend he knows what's going on."

"So I'm guessing that all that--" He nodded at the bandages "--is none of my business?"

Some of the tension left Xander's shoulders. "That'd be a good guess."

The cellphone in Gunn's pocket buzzed quietly. He kept thinking he should set that to silent running, but the jump he always gave when the vibrator went off was more attention-grabbing than the sound. And Wesley had taken to dialing up his number just to see him jump. "Yo, this is Gunn."

"Gunn," Wesley said, "we need you and Xander to come back to the house. We're trying to figure out what to do with ourselves tonight."

"Right, we'll head on back. Anybody killed anybody yet?"

"Cordelia has been sighing at Buffy and at Angel in equal measure, but that's the extent of it. Seen anything interesting out there?"

"The most Stepford town you have ever seen in your life."

"Oh, yes, there have been robots wandering around occasionally. Be careful coming back."

"Right." He folded the phone and tucked it back in his pocket. "They want us back." Xander nodded and turned around.

"So," Xander said, "Cordelia and an acting career. Can she act?"

"Not so's you'd notice."

They were halfway back to Revello Drive when the bushes by the sidewalk rattled and three vampires jumped out.

Gunn pulled his axe around. "They just jump out at you? Out in front of everybody?"

Xander pulled out his stake and tried to keep Gunn and the axe between him and the vampires. "We've got a lot of 'em. We never said they were smart."

The three vampires kept getting in each other's way, and Gunn lopped off the head of the one in front.

"Hey!" protested one of the remaining two. "You're not supposed to do that!"

Gunn stared at him. "Excuse me?"

The last vampire snuck around, moving in on Xander. Xander tried to track him, but the bite on his neck kept him from moving his head as fast as he needed. He ducked the first grab, then the vampire got an armlock on him. Xander managed to jab his stake in the vampire's leg, but the vampire only snarled and dove for Xander's neck.

"Hang on, Xander!" Gunn yelled.

The vampire suddenly let go of Xander and jumped back. Xander stumbled, and Gunn caught him. The vampire sniffed audibly a couple of times, then turned and ran. The other vampire stared in confusion, then ran after the other.

Gunn helped Xander straighten up. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know." Xander carefully touched the bandage on his throat. "Maybe he didn't want sloppy seconds. Let's not mention this to the others. I'm tired of freakiness tonight."

Gunn stared at him, then told himself that this was just more freaky Hellmouth soap opera business, and he wanted nothing to do with it. "Right."


	5. Chapter 5

Back at the house, Angel pulled Cordelia to one side after Gunn left with Xander and everyone else was listening to Wesley. "I think it would be a good idea if you go home." 

She blinked at him. "My folks don't live in Sunnydale any more, they moved to Barstow."

"Wha--oh. I meant, back to LA."

"Oh! That home. Why?"

He glanced away a moment. "I didn't know about this thing with Giles. I don't want you running into him."

Cordelia nodded sadly. "I don't want to run into him, either. That would be . . ." She shook her head. "But if you need me up here, I'm not leaving." She gave him a narrow look. "Is this some 'get the helpless girl out of the way' thing? 'Cause if it is, mister, I just want to remind you about that little adventure in August, when I had to negotiate with that demon because it didn't believe males had functioning brains and was looking for a reason to feed you and the guys to its young."

He held his hands up. "I know, Cordy, and you did great. The Utlere even decided we were honorary females and everything, but this has nothing to do with that. This is--a whole lot more complicated than I thought it would be. The Council is running a major hunt here, and the fewer people I care about who could possibly get in the way, the better. And if Giles is involved with Spike--" they shared a shudder "--then the fight with the Aurelians will be a lot nastier too."

Reluctantly, Cordelia nodded. "It's a little late for driving back tonight."

"I know. Gunn can drive you back tomorrow, then bring the car back here."

"Do you need both the heavy hitters up here? Why not send Gunn back too? Buffy's here, you don't need the muscle."

Angel glanced over to make sure Wesley wasn't paying attention. "Do you really think Gunn's going to let Wesley stay up here by himself?"

Cordelia grinned, then smothered it quickly when Wesley glanced over. "So what if I get a vision, or something comes up with weird writing?"

"Give me a call, we'll work something out." Angel looked at his watch. "Gunn and Xander have been out a while. I hope they didn't run into trouble."

"Oh, my god," Cordelia gasped.

"What!"

"Xander."

"What about Xander?" Angel asked sharply.

"He's probably telling Gunn all the horror stories he can think of from high school, then Gunn will tell Wesley, then Wesley will tell you and Lorne and Fred--we've got to find them."

Angel grabbed her arm before she could head for the door.

Wesley shook his head and turned back to the Summerses. "She probably remembered a pair of shoes that she should have brought."

Buffy grinned. "So she hasn't changed that much, then."

He smiled. "I once was trapped for fifteen minutes listening to her explaining the difference between Jimmy Choo shoes and Prada shoes. I never did figure it out."

"Trapped?" Dawn said.

"Well, it seemed rude to bump my wheelchair into her shins to get her to move." He saw the hastily hidden looks of dismay and waved a hand. "Oh, nothing permanent. I was shot by a zombie policeman. Months ago."

"I hate zombies," Joyce muttered.

Buffy sat on the arm of the sofa and studied Wesley for a few moments. "I owe you an apology, don't I. For treating you the way I did."

Wesley shook his head. "Not at all. You were perfectly correct to ignore me, I had no idea what I was doing." He gave a deep sigh. "Buffy, I know I can never replace Giles, he was extraordinary at the job. But if I can be of any help to you, please, let me know. At the very least, I've learned that the Council's definitions of black and white are of very little use in the real world."

"Thank you," she said softly. "That's--actually a comfort, knowing I've still got something like a Watcher out there. I talked to Mr. Travers about there maybe being good demons as well as bad demons out there, and he didn't seem to be getting the concept at all."

Wesley chuckled. "No, I don't imagine he would. It took me a bit to understand it myself. Now, however, we're regular patrons at a bar owned by an anagogic demon called Lorne. Quite a pleasant chap, even if we did wreck his place when we drove Angel's car into it when came back from Pylea."

Buffy had been listening with a very sceptical look on her face. "Pylea?"

"Yes, Lorne's home dimension. We spent a while there at the beginning of the summer."

Willow and Tara stopped trying to be discreet about their eavesdropping and came closer. "You got to go to another dimension?" Willow said. "How is that fair? I want to go to another dimension."

"It wasn't anything we planned." He gave Cordelia a narrow look across the room. "Someone got sucked into a portal when she should have been more careful."

"Hey, that was not my fault," Cordelia protested, coming over. "And anyway, that all turned out all right." She tossed back her hair. "They did make me their queen."

Dawn squeaked. "Their queen? Oh, cool."

Buffy looked at Wesley, who sighed and nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid it's true. Though it was only princess, actually."

Cordelia sniffed. "Whatever. There was a throne and a crown and servants--"

"A chain mail bikini," Angel said casually.

"It was not chain mail!"

"Definitely not, Angel," Wesley said. "Very carefully draped rows of gold coins, yes, but not chain mail."

"Oh, right," Angel said. "My mistake."

Cordelia was looking for a comeback when the front door opened and Gunn and Xander came back in. "There you two are! What took you so long?"

Gunn gave her a suspicious look. "We got jumped by some vamps on the way back, no biggie."

Buffy stood up. "Where were they?"

"Over a couple of streets," Xander said, "not near here. We took care of them."

Gunn headed over to drop down next to Wesley. "So what did you guys need us back for?"

Cordelia dragged Xander to the farthest corner of the room. "You didn't tell him anything embarrassing about me, did you?"

Xander pulled his arm free. "I thought you got over the whole 'I am Cordelia Chase, the world is all about me' thing. We didn't talk about you, sorry." He grinned. "Though I guess we could start. They can tell me stuff, I can tell them stuff--ow!"

"Oh, you big baby, I didn't hit you that hard." She stared at his chest where she'd given him a quick backhand slap. "That sounded different." She ran a curious hand over his chest muscles. "Wow. Those weren't there before. Take off your shirt."

He batted her hand away. "No! The days when you could just run your hands all over my body whenever you wanted are over, remember?"

They realized that everyone on the other end of the room was watching with interest. Cordelia covered her face. "Oh, god. What did I ever see in you again? Don't. You. Dare," she added quickly when he opened his mouth. She spun around and walked firmly to the others. "So. We were discussing where to put everybody for the night, right?"

Wesley cleared his throat. "Yes, we were."

"You can have my room," Dawn said with a bounce. "I can sleep on the couch."

"Or," Cordelia said, "you can keep your room and I can take the couch. I'm headed back to LA in the morning, anyway." She smiled at Dawn's pout. "Sorry."

"I've got a floor and a couch, I can put Wes and Gunn up," Xander offered.

There was a little silence while Buffy frowned and looked at Angel. "But what about--"

Xander smiled in genial immovability. "I've got room for two."

"I'll be fine, Buffy," Angel said quickly. "It's a pain in the neck to get everything sunproofed, anyway. I know lots of boltholes around Sunnydale."

"Great," Xander said. "Did you guys want to compare notes anymore tonight? Because while I hate to be a downer, I was in the hospital this morning, and I really want to go home to my own bed and my own shower and all that."

Wesley glanced at everyone, then stood up. "It was a long drive up, I'm sure we'd all like to get some rest. Thank you, Xander."

While Angel arranged use of the car with Wesley and Gunn and they said their good-nights, Cordelia sidled up to Xander again. He backed away suspiciously, and she touched his hand to stop him.

"Look, seriously," she said quietly, "if anyone knows things about me that would have them teasing me for years, it's you. What can I do to keep you from telling the guys stories?"

He studied her for several moments, then smiled. "You just have to ask."

She gave him her brightest smile. "Oh, you are so sweet. It's such a darn shame we'd have just ended up killing each other." She hugged him hard. "Anya is a very lucky woman," she told him sincerely. Xander lost his smile, and Cordelia gasped in horror. "Oh, no. What else didn't Willow tell us?"

"No, no, Anya's OK," Xander said quickly. "She's just--she's not around." He put his good arm around her and hugged her back. "It's a long story."

"Aren't they all."

"Cordelia." Angel was holding the front door open. "The guys are waiting."

"Right." She rose up on tiptoe to give Xander a kiss on the lips. "In case I don't see you tomorrow. Get my email address from Willow, OK?"

"OK."

Angel gave Xander a narrow look as Xander went out the door. Xander was more than happy to return the look with one of his own. As he headed down the front walk to the convertible, Xander realized that Angel hadn't been annoyed at the delay or anything like that. Angel was jealous.

Gunn climbed into the back of the car, and Xander took the front passenger seat. Wesley looked at Angel, who was standing on the sidewalk and watching Xander.

"Are you sure you'll be all right?" Wesley asked. "I'm sure things have changed around here."

"Not that much. It probably wouldn't be a bad idea, though, to do a quick scout around before I hole up, see what has changed."

"Gunn or I could go with you."

"No, Gunn's got to take Cordy back to LA tomorrow, and you might want to check on the Council tomorrow. You guys need your sleep."

Wesley grimaced but nodded. He watched Angel fade off into the shadows, then got behind the wheel and started the engine. "Xander, how do we get to your place?"

After Xander gave directions, Gunn leaned over the seat. "So, Xander. You and Cordy, huh?"

Xander laughed. "Yeah, me and Cordy."

Wesley smiled as he pulled out. "Gunn, do remember that Angel has promised to teach her how to use a sword. She won't mind practicing on you."

Xander blinked. "Cordelia with a sword?"

"I'm afraid so."

Gunn waved a hand. "Don't matter. I want some dirt on Cordy."

"Sorry," Xander said, "she got to me first. I promised her I wouldn't tell you guys anything."

"Oh, come on!"

"Give it up, Charles," Wesley laughed, turning a corner. "Xander is a loyal man. If he promised, then he won't talk."

"Damn." Gunn leaned back and sulked.

Wesley saw Xander staring at him. "What?"

"Uh, nothing."

They pulled up in front of Xander's building. Xander got out and pushed the seatback forward so Gunn could get out, but Wesley didn't move.

"Wes, come on," Gunn said. "The anti-theft charm you put on Angel's wheels is better than a Lo-Jack, so we can leave the car on the street."

Wesley slowed drummed his fingers on the wheel. "Angel was too cooperative. He wants us out of the way tonight."

"Maybe he doesn't want pesky humans around while he pays some calls on old friends."

"Precisely," Wesley nodded. "Xander, do you know where Spike and--" He winced. "--and Giles are?"

"Yeah. They're in a half-built subdivision called Sunrise Grove on the east side of town."

Wesley thought hard, pulling up his old mental map of Sunnydale. "Out by the state highway?"

"Yeah."

Gunn stepped back to the car. "You think he's off having his family reunion now?"

"It would make sense," Wesley said. "Word would spread anyway once he starts poking around. I'm sure he'd rather go to them than vice versa."

"Right." Gunn climbed back in. "You wanna come?" he asked Xander, who was standing on the sidewalk.

Xander shook his head. "No offense, but if Angel gets his butt kicked by the grandkids, I'm afraid I'm rooting for the home team. I'm going to go get the shower I've been wanting all day." He turned, then looked back at them. "I'll leave the door unlocked, but if you two can't get in without an invitation, then you can just sleep in the hall."

Wesley frowned. "But you already offered to put us up, that counts as an invitation."

"Nope. I said I could put you up, I didn't say I would put you up. You learn those sorts of details in the 'Dale."

Gunn poked Wesley's arm. "The man knows what he's doing. Let's go see if the big guy does."

"Right."

* * *

Angel studied the rec center in Sunrise Grove for several minutes before strolling down the broken street to the main doors. The male vampire on guard looked like a lesser version of Spike, with slicked back hair and a cigarette he wasn't too expert at smoking. He put so much effort on inhaling that he didn't notice the new arrival until Angel was almost on top of him. He jumped, dropped the cigarette on himself, then flailed desperately at the sparks on his shirt. Angel sighed and waited patiently till he was done.

"Is Spike here?" he finally asked.

"Who wants to know?"

Angel closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, they were gold. "Is Spike here?"

"Wh--who wants to know?"

Well, he had to get credit for doing his job. Which was why Angel only picked him up by the shirtfront and knocked him unconscious against the doorjamb instead of snapping his neck.

About a half dozen more young vampires watched as Angel strode into the building. "Is Spike here?" One of the females pointed an uncertain finger down the hallway. "Thank you." He let his fangs slip away and walked on.

The hallway led to a room that had been intended as a gymnasium but which was now occupied by a big screen television, several chairs and couches, and a group of planters in a far corner under some skylights. Angel stopped in the clear area near the center, looked around casually to check all the exits, and waited. He'd seen the messenger who had run into the depths of the building as he entered.

"Well, well, well," drawled the familiar voice. "If it's not Birnam Wood. Pity this isn't Dunsinane."

Angel looked over his shoulder, but he kept the rest of the room under observation. "Hello, Spike."

"Peaches." Spike sauntered from the doorway to a chair in easy view and out of arm's reach of Angel. He dropped down and threw a leg over the arm. "Despite appearances, you're not an idiot. So what would bring the great poof of Los Angeles into the very middle of my lair?" He looked around Angel to the flock of vampires clustered around the entrance to the room. "Angie, go tell Billy Bob to take a turn around the place. This one rarely travels alone." A female nodded and ran out.

"This time I did," Angel said, staying calm despite the calculated insolence of Spike's posture. He was on delicate diplomatic ground here. Nominally he was still head of the line, and his demon wanted to forcefully remind Spike of that, but the soul had taken him out of the traditional vampire hierarchies. Spike, unchipped, was in full control of his faculties and the master of this enclave. Angel was betting that Spike's curiosity would prevent violence from breaking out--for a while, at least.

Spike got to his feet and strolled closer. "I smell the whole lot of 'em on you, Peaches, your gang, the Slayer's crew. Let me guess, you don't contact them in an hour or something, I'll have the whole bunch of them on my head?"

"They don't know I'm here."

"I don't believe you, Angelus."

A small gasp came from the observers. Angel couldn't help a very faint smile of satisfaction.

Spike shrugged. "Yeah, they know their history. Of course, that's all old news, from the days when you were still a vampire to be proud of."

Angel let go of some of the leashes he held on the demon for his humans' sake. "I can be Angelus enough for this crowd."

"You've still got the soul," Spike said thoughtfully. "And I don't think even you have balls big enough to stroll in here just to tell me I've been a bad boy."

"I know how you got your car back. I don't want you in my city."

Spike smirked. "Sammy, would we happen to have any nice long sharp pokers around? And maybe a fire to heat them up with?"

The minion closest to them jumped. "Uh, no. You want me to go get some?"

"Not just yet." Spike and Angel stared at each other for several moments, then Spike tilted his head. "We've got better things to use."

Air currents shifted, bringing new scents, but Angel kept himself from reacting. "Hello, Giles."

"I prefer Ripper, these days."

Carefully, Angel stepped to one side and turned enough to see the vampire standing behind him while keeping Spike and the others in view.

Hard, pale eyes glared at him, and Giles' fingers twitched slightly. The scent of hate rolled off him, but it rode on a thick base of fear. Angel fought back the smile that was trying to so hard to escape, an Angelus smile at the sight of fresh meat. His demon self could feel the connection, could smell its own bloodline in this newest addition to the offspring. This youngster needed schooling, needed to learn his place in the order of things, needed to learn that he did not get to gaze so defiantly at his grandSire. Only then, when he'd learned to bow his head, should he be told how special he was, how powerful he could be. The shade of Angelus chuckled at the magnificent chaos a Watcher vampire could wreak.

Angel closed his eyes. Savage joy and grief fought for control. Finally, before anyone could take advantage of his distraction, he opened his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said softly.

Giles curled his lip, fangs flickering into view momentarily. "Why we shouldn't kill you where you stand?"

The demon slipped Angel's grip and smiled. "How about because you'll be dust before any of the others can put a hand on me, boy."

"Oh, this is going well," Spike said. "It's a fucking sad day when I have to be the voice of reason. Ripper, if you kill him, then there's all that potential fun gone. Much better to torture him for a while." He considered Angel for a moment. "Angelus doesn't get to come out to play, Peaches. Put him away. Unless you want that big balls-out, free-for-all bloodbath that'll settle who's toughest once and for all." He bounced on his toes slightly, obviously willing. Giles' fangs appeared to the accompaniment of a low growl.

How sweet would that be, to force respect on this bunch of fledgelings and malcontents who only knew him as a legend? And it's only vampires, his darker self murmured. Killers, all. Not a soul, not a conscience among them. It would be a service to the people of Sunnydale to destroy this lot.

"Terribly sorry to interrupt," said a cool British voice. "I'm afraid you're going to need a new doorman."

In the doorway that led to outside, Wesley and Gunn leveled their loaded crossbows in the general direction of everyone.

Spike smirked at Angel. "You said you came alone. It's not nice to lie."

"I did come alone! What are you two doing here!"

"Covering your ass by the looks of it," Gunn said.

Giles turned and stared in amazement. "Wesley?"

Wesley flinched just a little, but his crossbow's aim settled firmly on Giles. "Rupert."

Spike blinked. "That's the git of a baby Watcher whose only use was to scream to let you know where the bad guys were?" Giles nodded silently.

Angel winced. "Wes, don't kill them. Yet."

"I'll take that under advisement," Wesley said, not taking his eyes off Giles.

"Looks like baby Watcher grew a pair," Spike grinned.

"He will shoot you," Angel told him.

Spike sauntered over towards Wesley, who glanced at him but didn't change his crossbow's aim on Giles. "I can see why Angel likes you," Spike said. "Skinny and smart and pretty and uncertain underneath it all. You're just his type."

Wesley didn't blink as Spike came up close, though he did shift his crossbow to his left hand. "Jealous?"

Spike shifted into gameface and grinned. "You do know I could rip your heart out before anybody could lift a finger to help, don't you?"

"Yes," Wesley drawled. "And the shock would undoubtedly cause me to pull the trigger on the gun I have pointed at your heart."

"Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just happy--" He glanced down. "Oh. It is a gun. Crossbow would be more effective, mate."

Wesley stared back into the demon eyes. "Wooden bullets."

"Don't work."

"It's a revolver. Lower breech pressure. And the bullets are tightly packed splinters held together with a high-density, heat-resistant polymer. Plus some holy water for extra oomph."

Spike blinked and looked down at the revolver barrel pressed against his chest. "Still wouldn't work."

A faint smile appeared on Wesley's face. "The tests have been promising. And in any case, I imagine it would hurt a great deal."

"You're bluffing."

Gunn chuckled. "I know which side I'm putting money on."

Spike glanced over at Gunn, then back to Wesley as he started to grin. He took a slow step backwards as he blatantly looked Wesley over. "Peaches, when you're done with this one, can I have a go?"

"He's spoken for," Gunn snapped. Wesley's smile broadened just a little.

Angel wasn't bothering to hide his smirk. "He'd be more than you could handle, Spike."

Spike shrugged. "Got my own ex-Watcher, anyway, eh, Ripper?" He grinned at Giles, who only smiled faintly in return, being more occupied with watching Wesley.

Gunn looked from Wesley, to Giles, to the surrounding vampires. "Wes, you pull the trigger on that crossbow, and we've got a real ugly mob scene going down."

"I know, Charles. But it's my job to rid the world of abominations."

Giles' eyes narrowed. "What makes you think you're able to do what the Council apparently can't?"

Wesley looked him in the eye as he raised the crossbow. "What makes you think I'm not?"

"Wes," Angel warned.

"This doesn't involve you, Angel."

Angel checked the room, picking which targets he'd go for once he'd dealt with Spike. Hopefully dealt with Spike. "It involves me when you're about to start a very ugly brawl."

Giles took a careful step forward. "You'd do the Council's dirty work for them, Wesley? I thought you'd come to your senses about them."

"I have," Wesley said calmly. "This has nothing to with the Council, either. I would hope you'd be aiming a crossbow at me, if your positions were reversed. We fight evil, we don't become evil."

Gunn carefully turned so that his back was to Wesley's. "I got your back, man."

"Thank you, Charles."

Spike was bouncing on his toes again, watching the stand-off, then he looked at Angel. "Fuck," he snarled. "This is your fault, Angel."

"My fault!"

"If I let them start this, then I'll never find out what the fuck you're doing here. I hate being the responsible one! Put it down, ex-Watcher--human ex-Watcher. You can shoot Ripper some other day."

Giles glared at him. "Oh, thank you."

Wesley didn't move. "Somehow, Spike, I don't believe I have to do what you tell me."

"I've got half a dozen minions that say otherwise."

"Are they faster than a crossbow bolt?"

Angel sighed. "Wes, let it go for now. We've got other things to deal with."

"As I said, this doesn't concern you, Angel."

"Well, I'd really rather not watch you and Gunn get ripped to shreds, OK?"

Spike grinned at him. "Assuming you even lived long enough to see it." Angel curled his lip back at him.

"We are kinda out-numbered here, Wes," Gunn said reluctantly. "If I had my axe . . ."

"Damn," Wesley muttered. He lowered the crossbow, but still glared at Giles. "This isn't over."

Giles smiled faintly. "I hardly thought it was."

Spike glared around at everyone, but especially at Angel. "Now. What the hell are you doing here, Angel?"

Angel looked around as well, checking the various threat levels. "Do you know Cardinal Fortezzi?"

Spike frowned in thought. "Very old vampire, has a big palazzio in Rome, doesn't get out much. Yeah, me and Dru spent a couple of weeks with him. What about him?"

"He came to visit me in L.A."

"Oh, the hell he did! He said he'd never leave Italy unless it was a matter of undeath or death."

Angel shrugged. "A couple of days ago I came home to find His Eminence and his full entourage in the lobby of my hotel."

Giles looked at Wesley. "You met Cardinal Fortezzi?"

"Um, yes," Wesley blinked.

"Is he really 500 years old? Has he begun transforming yet?"

Wesley shifted his crossbow to a more comfortable hold. "500 and a couple of years. And, yes, you can see signs that his body is beginning to shift to a more wholly demonic form."

"What sorts of signs?"

Spike and Angel both rolled their eyes. "Oi, Watchers!" Spike said. "Compare notes later." Wesley blushed and Giles fidgeted a little. Spike looked back at Angel, but this time his expression was serious. "What brought the old man out of his shell?"

Angel sighed. "You."

"What! I swear, it's been a good ten years since I've laid eyes on the Cardinal, I had nothing to do with his icon of St. Gregorio going missing--"

"Spike, shut up! This has nothing to do with icons or whatever you got up to in Rome or anything like that. This is Aurelius business."

Spike blinked for several moments. "The Order? What the fuck do I care about the Order? A bunch of calcified freaks who spend centuries deciding if they're still offended by something that happened during Charlemagne, and they're all doling out bits of favor to the toadies and suck-ups in their entourages. It's ridiculous, and I want nothing to do with it."

Angel glanced around the room at the vampires who hung on Spike's every word and decided not to say anything about entourages--especially when his eye fell on Wes and Gunn. "I know you've always stayed out of the politics and ritual whenever you could, but this time you're not going to be able to help it. The Order is finally ready to pick a successor for the Master." A look of mingled horror and evil glee appeared on Spike's face. "No, it's not you! Their candidate is supposed to be coming to town to prove she's tough enough for the job by taking you out."

"Why me?"

"As much I hate to say this, some people find you impressive. Enough people have heard of you that whoever kills you will be talked about. Fleur de Mal isn't well known, and she's looking to make her reputation."

"Fleur de Mal?" Spike repeated.

Angel shrugged. "She's French."

Spike frowned for a thoughtful moment. "Why are you telling me this? Why aren't you the sidelines cheering the bint on?"

Angel looked around at the others, wishing he didn't have witnesses for this. "Because it's better for you to be in charge of the Hellmouth than her."

"What was that?" Spike put a hand to his ear. "I must not have heard that right. It sounded like you said something nice about me."

"It wasn't nice. You're just the lesser of two evils. She's going to want to make as much of a name for herself as possible, and I imagine the Hellmouth would be a damned tempting tool, especially since the Master wanted it opened. You at least know the thing needs to stay closed."

"When's the bint making her move, do you know?"

"I don't know. Cordelia had a vision a few days ago saying I was going to be jumped by several vampires, but that didn't quite pan out. She might be keeping an eye on me."

Spike paced a little. "She's not the sort to be travelling alone, I imagine."

"She'll want witnesses she can trust."

"Well, I haven't heard of any new gangs in town or anything--"

"Um . . ." Sammy slowly raised his hand.

Spike glared at him. "Let me guess. There is a new gang in town."

"Well, I don't know if they're a gang or not . . ."

"How many and where are they?" Angel asked.

Sammy looked uncertainly at Spike, who nodded impatiently. "About a dozen or so, I think. They're up at that big house on Crawford Street."

Angel twitched, and Spike nodded. "Your old place. If she's after symbolism, that'd be the place to use as a base. Why didn't you tell me this before, Sammy?"

Sammy shrugged. "You've been busy."

"Playing mindgames with people," Angel said quietly. "Biting people and letting them go."

Spike glared at him. "You leave him be, Angel. It's none of your business."

"So what are you going to do about Fleur de Mal?"

Spike glanced at Giles. "What do you think, full-out assault?"

Giles nodded thoughtfully. "That could be fun, especially if she's not expecting it."

"Oh, for hell's sake," Angel sighed. "She bound to have some sort of defensive spells up, plus she'll have minions of her own. You can't just barge in there."

"I think whatever we do," Giles said slowly, "we're not going to tell you. Thank you for the warning, though."

Spike grinned. "I'm still not sure this isn't some trap you've cooked up. Wouldn't put it past you. You're an evil son of a bitch, soul or no soul."

Angel started to speak, then shook his head. "All right then." He glanced at Wesley and Gunn, who nodded. "I hope she leaves enough of you sweep up and flush before this whole town goes to hell. Again." He glared at all the vampires around them, then headed for the door, Wesley and Gunn behind him. No one followed.

Out in the air, Gunn shifted his shoulders to ease the tension. "You think they're really going to try a raid on this Fleur chick?"

Angel shook his head. "No, that was just to annoy me. Spike's an idiot, but he's not stupid. He's got a better grasp of tactics than that."

"And if he doesn't," Wesley said grimly, "Giles does. Or he did."

"So, Wes," Angel said carefully, "that gun of yours. Does it really have wooden bullets that actually work?"

Wesley managed a faint smile. "Really, Angel, if I tell you, then everyone will know. You're a dreadful gossip."

"Hey!"

Back inside the rec center, the minions whispered among themselves, muttering "That was Angelus?" and "I thought he'd be taller." Giles fought back the residual dread/rage he'd been feeling through the whole visit.

"Do you believe him?" he asked Spike.

Spike stared in the direction Angel and the others had gone. "Yes," he finally said. "Even if he was lying, his humans believed him. I think his Watcher would back him up through anything, but the black bloke smelled honest."

"I didn't think Wesley was capable of lying convincingly, but . . ."

"You think he was telling the truth about that gun?"

"I don't know. He may have learned to bluff, but then--he may have learned how to make wooden bullets."

Spike studied Giles. "How rattled are you after dealing with Angel?"

"I'm not rattled! I'm--wanting to tear his heart out and roast it in front of him."

"Well, that's pretty typical. So you're up to a little adventuring tonight?"

Giles looked intrigued. "What sort of adventuring?"

"I'm thinking a drive up Crawford Street way might be a good idea."

"Formal visit or sneaking?"

"Sneaking, of course. I'm not playing those poncey formal Aurelian games. Tell Sammy to keep an eye out while we're gone."

The issue of De Soto versus BMW was settled by Paper, Scissors, Rock, though Giles protested he shouldn't be expected to know the rules to such a juvenile game. Spike only laughed and turned up the stereo in the De Soto.

They drove past the place first. The windows showed light, and there were vehicles in the drive. Spike parked a couple of curves farther up the road and killed the engine, smoking grimly.

"What's wrong?" Giles asked.

"I hate that place. Should have torched it when I came back that one time, when I saw the poof was still in residence. Would have made more sense." He looked at Giles from the corner of his eye. "What about you?"

"Hm? Oh, about the house?" Giles frowned in thought. "It's--rather vague, actually, now. I remember the pain, but I don't remember the specifics. Mostly I remember Angelus smiling. The house itself is fairly meaningless for me." He managed a smile. "If I can cope with Angel himself before me, then I can deal with a building."

"Right then."

They kept to the road instead of trying to pick their way through the briars and brush that was growing wild above the house. They spotted a guard on the shoulder of the road a hundred yards away from the house. Spike silently picked up a rock and lobbed it far into the brush, where it thumped and rattled satisfyingly. The guard jumped and peered into the darkness, but he didn't leave his post.

"Go distract him," he whispered into Giles' ear. Giles nodded and pulled his glasses case out of his coat pocket.

The guard frowned in confusion at the approach of the harmless looking man in the glasses and casual attire. "I'm terribly sorry," he said in a genial English voice, "but my car is stalled up the hill. Is there a phone in the house that I can use?"

"A--phone?" the guard repeated, his French accent further confusing the word.

"A telephone?"

The discussion became moot when Spike appeared behind the guard with a stake. They waved the dust away from their faces, then picked their way farther down the hill.

The French doors that led into the courtyard were open, letting slow jazz music escape. A woman reclined on a lounge next to the fountain while a young man looped long braids around her head. A man came out of the house carrying a jar and frowning.

"Madame, you know I don't like to complain--"

The woman put a hand to her chest. "You don't?" The young man behind her ducked his head to hide his snicker.

"Madame . . ." The man with the jar scowled. "Msr. Paul has been in my laboratory again. Will you please tell him to leave my things alone? I can't imagine what he wants my leeches for." He glared into his jar. "There were twenty in here this morning, now there are only fourteen."

"Are you sure it was Paul? Some of the others may have been curious."

"Non, madame. The ones who came with us from home know better, and the ones we hired here don't seem to care. And I hesitate to remind you, madame, but there was the incident with the fingerbones . . ."

The woman sighed. "I remember, Louis. I'll speak to him. Do you need more leeches?"

"I can manage with what I have, merci. There seems to be an excellent magic shop in town where I can get more if I must." He stepped forward to kiss her outstretched hand. "Merci, madame."

"De rien." As Louis left, she picked up and rang a small bell from a nearby table. A vampire appeared at the French door. "Bring me Paul, s'il vous plait."

Up on the hillside, Giles nudged Spike's arm and nodded back towards the road. They waited until Paul arrived to be chastised before slipping away.

"A lady who likes her luxuries," Giles commented as they climbed back to the car.

"How many do you think?" Spike asked.

"Fleur de Mal, Louis, Paul--I think we can ignore the hair dresser--and it sounds like several more. Should we check with Willie?"

"Not us. Send Fred or Sammy, maybe somebody who can pretend he wants to jump ship from us to her. That Louis is human. What do you think he does in that lab of his?"

"Something else we'd best find out, I imagine."

They discussed options on the way back to Sunrise Grove. Fred was waiting to open the garage door, but he kept looking at the door to the rest of the building.

Spike paused before climbing out of the car. "What's wrong?"

"Somebody showed up just after you left."

"Did the poof come back?"

"The poof? Oh, you mean, Angelus? No, it's a woman. A weird woman."

Giles got out and closed the car. "Weird? And you don't know her?"

Fred shook his head and maneuvered so that Spike was between him and the door. Spike got out and slammed the car door, frowning. "Human or vampire?"

"Vampire."

Spike frowned at Giles. "Maybe somebody else decided some reconnaissance wasn't a bad idea." Giles nodded and followed.

There were whispering knots of vampires in the corridors, and they were all glancing towards the gymnasium. Spike went in first, searching for the visitor, then he froze.

"He's been here, I can smell him," said the low, musical voice. "He came to see my boys, my beautiful, beautiful boys."

Giles stopped dead at the sight of the woman dancing slowly underneath the skylights, trailing her fingers through the flower petals in the planters. Spike sank to his knees, blinking in disbelief. "Drusilla," Giles whispered.

She turned to face them, giving them a tilted smile. "My lovely, bloody boys." She glided over to Giles. "Do you hate me for leaving you?" she asked, running her fingers over his face.

"No," he whispered. "But I missed you."

She rose on tiptoes to kiss him. "Of course you did, darling boy." She leaned up further to whisper in his ear. "But Spike needed you, even though he was very, very naughty."

Spike stared up at her, obviously trying to find words. Drusilla knelt in front of him and lightly ran a fingernail down his throat. "Very naughty," she murmured.

"I'm sorry, Dru," Spike finally managed.

The fingernail tracked up over his face, barely missing his eye, and settled on his forehead. "I was very cross with you, Spike, but then I saw. They'd twisted your mind. That evil thing, screeching in your brain, made it so you couldn't think. She's still in there, I can see her, and you still long for her, but you've been following someone else, someone dark." Drusilla leaned back and laughed. "Oh, the kitten! The poem-faced kitten. Are you going to bring him home with you so we can pet him and take care of him?"

"Not yet, Dru. He's still a little skittish." Spike carefully raised a hand to touch her face. She smiled and tilted her head under his fingers. "Dru . . ."

She reached out to pull Giles down to the floor as well. He gently took her hand. "Drusilla, why did you say Spike needed me?"

"The screaming thing in his head." She twined her fingers with his. "You knew how to turn it off. But I had to change you. Instead of the one who watches, you had to be the one who does." She touched the amber jewel in the top of Spike's ear. "You don't need that anymore," she whispered.

Spike frowned. "That's what blocks the chip, love, keeps it from working."

Drusilla slowly shook her head, all mischievous smiles. "It's lost its voice. It was screaming and screaming, but no one could hear it, until finally it just wore itself out and went quiet. It can't scream any more."

Spike looked at Giles. "The gem doesn't disable the chip," Giles said, thinking hard, "it just interferes with completing the circuit. The chip is still receiving the impulses to stop you from hurting humans, but they couldn't get out."

Spike nodded. "And if it gave me migraines for just smacking somebody upside the head, it must have been really firing when I started dining out again."

"I doubt it was designed to stand up to too many jolts of a level to stop you killing someone." Giles looked at Drusilla. "It's dead? You can see it?"

She nodded, beaming. "Pretty little beads and threads, all dead."

Spike stared at her, then jumped to his feet. "Is there anything human around here?" he yelled. The watching minions jumped, then nodded. "Bring it."

Giles started to get to his feet, but Drusilla tugged him back down. "Just watch, my owl," she told him, wrapping her arms around him. "You'll see."

A semi-conscious girl was dragged from the old kitchen. Spike stared at her, then reached up to take the gem out of his ear. He held it out to Giles. "Watch this for me." Giles took it silently.

Spike took the girl in his arms and studied her for several moments. She was probably the freshest in the larder, with only a few bite marks on her neck and wrists. She was even still able to raise her head and look groggily around. Spike took hold of her hair and pulled her head back, exposing her throat. She whimpered in protest and pain, and he smiled. She cried out as he bit hard and drank fast.

He raised his head and grinned at the minions. "Anybody want to finish this?" He tossed the limp body in their general direction, then spun and snatched Dru up from the floor, laughing. "Thank you, my Dru, my plum, my goddess. Thank you." He whirled her around so her feet left the ground.

When she had her footing back, she ran a finger along his bloody lips. "I only saw it. Our lovely Ripper locked the wicked thing's mouth." She held her hand out to Giles, who quickly rose to take it. "I think we need to celebrate."

Spike kissed the finger that still rested against his lips. "Would you like a party, my love?"

Drusilla smiled at both of them. "I want to play with my boys."

Spike grinned at Giles. "A proper welcome home for our Sire, Ripper?"

Giles smiled back. "You'll have to show me what that involves."

Drusilla shivered happily. "It's good to be home."


	6. Chapter 6

Before Wesley had left the Summers' house last night, he'd quietly invited Buffy to a late breakfast at the IHOP the next day. She accepted, thinking it not a bad thing to have a quiet professional conversation with the one man who probably had the biggest interest in what was going on in Sunnydale. 

When she reached the restaurant, she was amazed to see Wes at a corner table, calmly sipping coffee and reading the morning paper, blithely ignoring the noisy children at the neighboring table. He still had his faintly fussy British air, but he looked much more comfortable around gauche Americans.

He looked up and smiled when she reached his table. "Good morning, Buffy. Did Cordelia get off all right?"

"She was complaining about it being way too early to be up, but Gunn didn't seem to care."

"I'd be far more concerned if she wasn't complaining. An agreeable Cordy is one of the first markers of an apocalypse, we've found."

Buffy stared at him. "Really?"

"Well, no, but it's amusing to tell her so and watch her hit someone while saying that she's always friendly and cooperative."

"You guys really get along, then."

He started to speak, paused, then simply smiled. "Yes, we do."

The waitress--Linda, according to her nametag--arrived. "So what can I get you folks this morning?"

Wesley nodded to Buffy, who looked at the menu. "Um--oh, gosh, Bavarian waffles--I really shouldn't . . ."

"I doubt you need worry about working it off," Wesley observed.

"True. OK, Bavarian waffle, with apple, and some milk."

The waitress nodded. "And what about you, honey?"

Wesley studied the menu seriously. "I believe I shall have the rooty-tooty fresh and fruity breakfast. And more coffee."

"Sure thing."

Buffy grinned at him as the waitress left. "Do you know how funny that sounds in a prim and proper British accent?" He raised a reproving eyebrow at her over his glasses. She felt a bolt of pain that shocked her, then she remembered Giles giving her identical looks of amused disapproval.

Wesley frowned. "Buffy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing." The look of disbelief she got was familiar, too, and she fought tears. "Giles used to give me looks like that," she finally admitted.

The old Wesley would have scolded her for sentimentality. The new Wesley only nodded. "It's never easy, seeing someone you know well so dreadfully changed. There was an incident a bit back where Angel was slipped a drug that removed inhibitions, and for a while we were dreadfully afraid that Angelus had returned. Thankfully it wore off, and he returned to, well, normal."

"Angelus came back?" Buffy gasped.

"Temporarily. Once we managed to knock him out and chain him to his bed, everything was fine." He saw the way Buffy was looking at him. "What is it?"

"You chained Angel to his bed?"

"It was purely in the line of duty, I assure you!"

Buffy stared at him, then the snicker escaped. Wesley humphed mildly and turned back to his paper. He pointed to the front page.

"Freeze rays involved in jewel robberies? Has a flying man in spandex been sighted as well?"

"Oh, not again." Buffy pulled the paper around to read the headlines. "There was a bank robbery not too long ago where the robber was supposed to be wearing a rubber monster suit. The description of the rubber suit was a whole lot less movie special effect and more demon."

Wesley frowned. "I wouldn't be surprised to hear of such a thing in Los Angeles, many demons there use trappings of human society, but here?"

"Maybe somebody's bar tab at Willie's is getting real big."

"True." Wesley folded the paper. "But that's not what I wanted to talk to you about. Tell me what happened to Giles."

Buffy flinched, then nodded. Linda the waitress arrived with their drinks and food; Buffy took a few slow bites of waffle as she got her thoughts in order.

She told Wesley about Giles disappearing from the Magic Box and how they thought he had gone off to work on a secret weapon against Glory. He had then attempted to kidnap Dawn, and they discovered he had become a vampire and he was associating with Spike. Giles had helped hold off the Knights of Byzantium and had come up with the idea of an ancient convent in the mountains as a place to hide from Glory.

Buffy hesitated before describing the last battle with the Knights and the defeat of Glory. She still wondered if there was something else she could have done that might have spared some of the carnage. The feeling persisted that she had failed Xander in a fundamental way. Slowly she told Wesley about that torch-lit night, the desperate jump to another dimension, and the dreadful choices they all had made.

Wesley stared at his plate when she was done, running his fork through the last bits of strawberry. "Is the Council here to deal with Giles?"

"Yes. Mr. Travers said as much."

"Are they expecting you to help?"

Buffy focused on a bit of whipped cream she'd missed. "No."

"Thank heaven," Wesley sighed. "Travers does have some pretensions to a heart. Do you know what they're waiting for?"

"No, I don't. I asked him, but he didn't really tell me."

"I suppose I should make contact with them, see what I can find out about their plans." He smiled at Buffy. "And don't worry, I won't believe them if they try to recruit me again. Not that they're likely to," he added quietly.

"You probably scare them too much." She bit her lip. "And I meant that in the nicest possible way."

Wesley's smile looked more honest. "Thank you." He tapped the folded newspaper. "What say we go over to this museum and see what we can find out about this robbery and freeze ray?"

"Sounds like a plan. There is more than enough wackiness in this town without weird science getting thrown in."

"Indeed." He signaled for the check.

* * *

Joyce smiled at her customer as she handed him the receipt. "Thank you very much, Msr. Louis. I hope you enjoy the bowl."

The Frenchman took her hand and kissed it. "I'm sure I shall, belle madame. I had no idea I'd be able to find such wonderful specimens in this small town."

His smile was just a shade too predatory for Joyce's comfort. To her relief, Paula, her assistant, returned from the back room with the half-wrapped box containing Msr. Louis' purchase. Joyce took the box and set it on the counter so they could all see the contents.

"There you are, sir, one Hopi spirit bowl in excellent condition."

Msr. Louis nodded approval, and Paula and Joyce finished packing the box and wrapping it.

The bell over the back door jingled. "Hi, Mom!" Buffy called. She came out of the office area and blinked. "Oh, sorry to interrupt." Behind her, Willow, Tara, and Wesley came to a halt.

"That's all right, dear, we're almost finished." Joyce handed the package to her customer. "There you are, sir. Thank you for shopping with us, and I hope we can serve you again."

"Merci, madame." Msr. Louis bowed, tucked the box under his arm and left.

Joyce smiled at Paula. "That was very pleasant."

"Yes, it was."

Buffy came over. "What did he buy?"

Joyce opened the cash register. "One of a set of Hopi spirit bowls we've had for a couple of months. I was hoping I could talk him into getting all four, but he was only interested in the one." She pulled out a sheaf of bills. "Still, I can't mind all that much."

"Wow, he paid in cash?"

"Yes, indeed." Joyce sighed. "It seems almost a shame to have to tell the government."

Paula patted her shoulder. "It's easier in the long run."

"I know." She flipped through the pile of fifty-three one-hundred dollar bills. Buffy's chin dropped when she saw denominations. "There's nothing currently severely broken in the house, is there?"

Buffy shook her head. "Not at the moment." She knocked on the wooden counter.

Joyce thought a moment on prudent savings accounts and college funds, then looked at her daughter the Vampire Slayer. "Don't you think it would be nicer to spend a couple of days at that lovely spa in Santa Barbara instead of that motel we were looking at?"

Delight appeared in Buffy's face, quickly followed by reluctant responsibility. "We wouldn't be spending that much time in the room, we were going to be mostly at the beach. The motel will be fine."

Joyce smiled. "Dawn's in the office looking at travel websites. Go tell her to look at the spa's site and see if there are any good deals."

Buffy hesitated for one noble second, then jumped a little and ran for the office. "Hey, Dawnie!"

Paula nodded. "You deserve a spa break."

"Yes, we do." She carefully put the cash back in the register and made sure it was closed securely.

Over at the case the recently sold bowl had come from, Wesley peered in at the three remaining bowls. "Where did you get these, Mrs. Summers?"

"From a very reputable dealer in San Marino."

"Do you know where that dealer got them?"

Joyce fought the urge to tsk. "From the estate of a private collector, who bought them from the Hopi at the beginning of the century and who had full receipts."

Wesley had the grace to look abashed. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insinuate anything. I was just curious as to the bowls' movements. They're very rare and not seen often outside of tribal hands."

Willow came over from where she and Tara had been inspecting several Navajo blankets that were hanging on the wall. "Wouldn't the Native Americans who made them want them back?"

Joyce managed not to roll her eyes. "Not all the Indian artifacts out in the world were taken illegally, Willow."

Wesley looked back at the bowls. "It's also not unknown for the tribes to dispose of certain items by selling them to people who were leaving the area. They bind a spirit to an artifact, then sell it legally to someone else, which forces the spirit to accompany the artifact."

Paula laughed as she went to the front door to turn over the Closed sign. "Without telling the poor tourist, either, I bet. Folklore is cool. Is there anything else you need tonight, Joyce?"

"No, thank you, Paula."

As Paula headed to the back office, Tara joined them. "What sort of spirits would be bound to the artifacts, Mr. Wyndam-Price?"

Wesley looked over the bowls. "I'm not an expert on Hopi symbology, but the green bowl here seems to be for a spirit that was afflicting the corn crop. The red bowl there is for a spirit of anger, and the brown one is supposed to protect the livestock."

"Do they work?" Willow asked. She held her hands out over the case. "Oh! There's--I heard whispering!" Tara held out her hands and murmured to herself.

Wesley frowned. "Mrs. Summers, what color was the bowl you sold?"

Joyce came over. "It was black on dark red clay. I have a picture somewhere."

"Yes, I'd like to see it, please."

"What do you think it is?" Willow asked.

"I'd rather see the picture before I guess."

Joyce brought a catalog over. "Here it is."

Wesley frowned at the indicated picture. "Can you tell me anything else about the man who bought this bowl?"

"He was French, and he said was in town for a few weeks." She sighed. "What horrible demonic plague is about to be unleashed on the unsuspecting citizens of Townsville this week?"

He blinked, then shook his head. "He wanted this bowl specifically? Interesting."

"What is this bowl for?" Willow asked. She ran her fingers over the picture, tracing the tangled, geometric lines.

"It appears to be an artifact to bind the restless dead."

"Bind?" Joyce said. "Well, that's something. I'm going to go check on my girls, call if you need anything."

As Joyce went to the office, Tara bent closer over the case. "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, what can you do with the bowls? Could--could the spirits get out?

Wesley smiled at her. "I'm not honestly sure. Perhaps any spirits could be released by breaking the bowl, though more often I've heard of breaking the bowls to destroy the bound spirits. It's possible that the bowls could be used to bind other, similar spirits."

Willow held her hand out over the other bowls again, frowning slightly. "Then the Frenchman wants to bind the restless dead? Ghosts?" She murmured a few words, and the bowls glowed faintly.

"Best to just let them rest," Wesley said quickly. A short word of his own dispelled the glow, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Willow glare at him. "Ghosts--or possibly the undead."

"I thought the PC term was 'living challenged'," said a new voice by the front door.

Wesley turned and smiled in delight. "Gunn! You're back!"

Gunn strolled in, followed by Angel, who paused to look around the room before he came in. Wesley joined them and bumped shoulders with Gunn in greeting. Gunn nodded at Willow and Tara. "What are they so interested in?"

"Just some Indian artifacts. Hopi spirit bowls. Someone was just buying a bowl for the restless dead as we came in. A Frenchman who's a stranger in town."

Angel frowned. "Vampire?"

"He was standing in that patch of sunlight by the register, so no. There might be other French strangers in town at the moment, other than Aurelian vampires."

"Maybe. All quiet here?"

"Buffy and I went out earlier to investigate a jewel theft with some odd circumstances, but otherwise it's been quiet."

Gunn studied Angel. "You've got that extra-broody 'something's pissing me off' look. What did you find?"

Angel grimaced. "Drusilla's in town. One of Spike's minions was in a warehouse down near the docks telling some other vampires all about it."

"Oh, dear," Wesley sighed. "A full reunion of the line, then. Fleur du Mal will be pleased."

"Drusilla's some kind of psychic, right?" Gunn asked. "You think she knows what's going down?"

"She might. Most of the time I was never sure what she knew until it was too late." He looked out the windows to the gathering evening darkness. "What really concerns me is what they might be getting up to. She and Spike were always a tight-knit little family of their own. Add Giles to that . . ."

Wesley's Watcher-trained objectivity briefly wondered if Spike and Giles would resort to fighting for the attention of their Sire and what interesting details of vampire anthropology could be learned. "I wonder if the Council knows she's here."

Angel shook his head. "This just gets better and better. I'd better tell Buffy, we'll need to step up patrols and see if we can figure out what they're up to."

"Angel, wait." Wesley checked to make sure no one was listening. "She and her mother and sister are planning a trip to the beach for a couple of days."

Gunn blinked. "Slayers get vacations?"

"Not normally," Angel said. He stared back towards the office. "They don't normally get a lot of things they should." He met Wesley's eyes. "We should probably make sure of the situation before we involve her."

Wesley smiled. "We shouldn't waste her time on wild goose chases." The smile faded. "And then there's what the Council's up to."

"You going to be OK with them?" Angel asked.

He felt his smile shift again. "Oh, yes, Angel, I'm going to be fine with them. Whether they'll be fine with me . . ."

Gunn and Angel both smirked.

The next morning, Buffy bounced from room to room, supervising the packing. She briefly thought about that desperate night when she'd gathered everyone up and thrown them on the bus to escape Glory, but the thought went away quickly. She could hear Dawn whining about how unfashionable her swimsuit was and their mother being patient and amused. Mom had a harder time losing her temper these days.

"Maybe when we get there we can see about getting you a new swimsuit."

Dawn gave one of her dolphin-pitch squeals. "Can I get a two-piece? Huh? Can I?"

"Maybe. But first we have to get there, and before that we have to pack. And do you really need four skirts?"

Buffy poked her head into Dawn's room as Dawn dumped the contents of her suitcase out onto her bed and rummaged through the pile. "This is my fun and flirty skirt," Dawn said, throwing it back into the suitcase. "I guess I don't need that one, it's frumpy. Oh, this one makes a nice wrap over a swimsuit."

Joyce intercepted the flung skirt, folded it neatly and put it in the suitcase next to the other, now-folded skirt. She smiled at Buffy.

"Have you got all your packing done?"

"Yep, I'm ready to go, how about you?"

"My suitcase is waiting to go to the car."

"My job! Dawn, since you're not ready, you get to carry your suitcase all by yourself. Take that into account while packing."

Dawn stuck her tongue out, then turned to frown at her nearly full bag.

Buffy easily juggled her and her mother's cases down the stairs and out to the car. She froze when she heard movement on the other side of the Land Rover. Just as she was putting the cases down, Xander straightened up and stretched his back.

"Xander!" She bounced over to give him a hug, careful of the left arm in its sling. He hugged her back hard with his good arm. She grinned up at him without taking her arms from around his waist. "For a man not too long out of a hospital, you look really good."

He laughed. "Maybe I need to get sent to the hospital more often."

"Don't you dare!" She studied him a moment, then snuggled against him. "It feels like I haven't seen you in forever."

He kissed her hair. "It seems like forever to me, too."

Xander continued his personal inspection of the car, despite Buffy assuring him that the garage had looked over everything already. She watched him screw open things, pull sticks out of other things, and make thoughtful noises in some odd, endearing male ritual. She remembered her father doing his own pre-trip checks, and she hugged Xander again just for the hell of it.

Willow and Tara arrived, hugged Xander themselves, then went in to help Joyce and Dawn finish packing and closing up the house. Wesley and Gunn turned up soon after. When Joyce and Dawn came out of the house, Dawn hugged Xander, and Joyce kissed him on the cheek.

"Is this some Hellmouth departure ritual?" Gunn said. "'Cause you're an OK guy, Xander, but I ain't huggin' you."

"Trust me," Xander grinned, "I appreciate that."

Willow hugged Xander's arm. "We're just showing our appreciation for our Xander-shaped friend."

Gunn looked at Wesley. "Man, we need more girls in the crew."

"How long are you going to be gone, Buffy?" Willow asked.

"Three days?" Buffy said, looking at her mother. Joyce nodded. "Three days. You guys will be OK, right?"

"Oh, we'll be fine," Willow said. "Right?"

Xander nodded. "No problems anticipated, ma'am."

"We're happy to help keep an eye on things," Wesley added.

Buffy looked at them all suspiciously. "We have a cell phone, and Willow's got the number. You'll call if you need me, right?"

"Of course," Xander said.

"Absolutely," Wesley nodded.

"No problem," Gunn added.

"You bet," Willow said cheerfully.

Buffy was hesitant, until Joyce put a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure everything will be fine, Buffy. Come on, now."

Dawn headed for the car. "Shotgun!"

"You're not making Mom sit in the back!" Buffy yelled. She started after her sister, then hesitated again. "I, uh, called Mr. Travers," she said to Wesley. "To let him know I was going out of town. He said he and his men will help look after things."

"I'm sure he'll be very helpful," Wesley said at his most polite. Gunn snickered.

Buffy was torn between dismay and her own snicker, then she shrugged and smiled. "As of now, I'm on vacation. Vacation," she repeated happily. "Have fun."

She hugged Xander, Willow, and Tara, paused, then hugged Wesley, who stuttered and almost reached for his glasses. Gunn held out his arms hopefully; she laughed and hugged him too. Just as she was turning for the car, movement in the shadows of the house across the street caught her eye. Her stomach clenched, then she saw the broad shoulders and dark hair. She imagined the hug those strong, cool arms could give her and smiled.

Everyone stepped well back as Buffy climbed into the driver's seat. She started the car and backed out of the driveway carefully. She hunted only briefly for Drive, then drove off neatly.

"Yay, Buff!" Xander applauded. "No skid marks!"

"She can't drive?" Gunn blinked.

Willow giggled. "Cars and Slayers take some getting used to each other."

Wesley nodded. "Of course, her reaction speed would make driving tricky."

Gunn looked at him. "Do you know everything?"

"Not yet," Wesley smiled. "So, we should sit down and make some plans on keeping an eye on things."

Willow sidled over to Tara. "We, um, were going to go see a movie."

"I need to go grocery shopping," Xander said. "Boy, do I need groceries."

Gunn grinned at Wesley. "I don't think they want to have a meeting with you, English. How well do these kids know you?"

"It's not that," Tara said. "I mean, I don't know him at all, it's just--" She blushed and ducked her head.

"She's pretty when she blushes," Gunn said.

Willow stepped in front of Tara. "She's always pretty, and she's with me."

Gunn held up his hands. "Fair enough, but a man can look." Tara smiled behind her hair.

Wesley glanced across the street to various shadows. "We can talk later, then. I'll show you around town, Charles, introduce you to some of the lowlights of the Hellmouth."

"Take him to Willy's," Xander said. "That should be an eyeopener."

Gunn glanced at Wesley, who shook his head. "You've seen Caritas, Charles, Willy's won't be anything new."

"Wall to wall uglies and bumpies?"

"Indeed." Wesley looked across the street again. "Though perhaps a trip to Willy's isn't out of place, just to get a feel for the situation."

Xander stepped closer. "Wes, you sure that's a good idea? I was kind of joking."

Gunn snickered. "My boy's a match for any bunch of demons. Besides, I bet there's someone tall, dark and lurky around here somewhere who wouldn't mind a drink about this time."

"Oh, yeah. Him."

"We'll be fine, Xander," Wesley said. "Go get your groceries, then go home and rest. We'll call you if anything comes up."

Xander waved Wes and Gunn off to their skullduggery, then spent a few minutes convincing Willow that, yes, he was perfectly happy letting his witches go off alone to have some snuggle time in a dark theatre. He knew his smile was a little forced, but for a change his cheek muscles didn't hurt. And he truly didn't mind that he was being left alone. He wasn't having to answer endless caring questions or put on his happy face. He really needed some more alone time himself to get his head straight, and he headed home.

He'd slept for eighteen hours straight after he'd gotten home from the hospital. When he woke up, he'd caught a whiff of his clothes and his bedding. Cleaning had then commenced. Six loads of laundry, ten trips to the dumpster, two naps and three pain pills later, his apartment smelled brand new and he was fighting off feelings of Zepponess. Some of those dumpster trips had been purely for bottles and beer cans.

In the bathroom, he unwrapped his arm bandage and studied the red line and its butterfly bandages before rebandaging. He pulled the bandage off his neck and stared into the mirror at the two holes. Scratches from jagged teeth were healing cleanly; the main fang marks didn't look as bad as injuries he'd taken on the jobsite--or while patrolling. There was surprisingly little bruising. Spike was apparently a tidy eater.

Thoughts about Spike were too squirmy to deal with and likely to make him hide under his newly April fresh sheets. He was still processing the mess that had resulted in his current vacation from work. The memory of his bosses comparing him to his pathetic father still burned. He wanted to sulk about it, but down in the guts of himself was the guy who'd bristled every time Angel had dismissed him. The guy who had stared down Angelus.

The guy who had drawn a line in the sand in front of General Gregor and defended it.

Whatever else that man was, he was not the sort who should mope in a bottle and whine that his life was hard. That was no way to do honor to the memory of the men he'd faced in battle.

His soul pulled itself upright for the first time in a long time. Remembered losses--Anya, his naivete--made him flinch, but that was all right. You were allowed to flinch.

He still wasn't comfortable talking to the girls. Willow, especially, would wring her hands over his differences. Well, she'd have to cope. He was different. Everyone was different. Different wasn't bad.

His mind cycled to a halt. He suspected he'd just thought of something significant, but he didn't want to chase it away with over analysis. If he felt better, he'd go for a long walk or run to distract himself, but he figured he should keep the physical exertion down just now.

He reached for the phone to find out if the team manager for the old Sunnydale High Swim Team still worked at the UC-Sunnydale pool.

He waited till the college swim team finished practice, then helped Sid check the chemical levels in the pool and pick up the wet towels. They hung out in the pool offices until the last of the jocks had primped and left.

"Once I take out the garbage," Sid said, "I'm done. All you'll have to do is make sure the lights are out and the doors lock behind you. You sure you're going to be okay here by yourself?"

Xander saw him glancing at the bandages on his arm. "I'll be okay."

Once Sid was gone, Xander put on his swim trunks and changed his bandages to the waterproof ones he used in the shower. He turned off all the lights except for the ones in the pool itself and went to stand on one of the start platforms.

Except for the faint ripples from the pumps, the water's surface was absolutely still. Xander stared at his slightly wavery reflections, smiled, then dove in.

He swam slowly, careful of his arm. When he reached the far end, he turned on his back to float. He let the deep warm water buoy him up, drifting.

It might not have been too bad, changing into a sea monster. Living in the water forever. Watching moonlight on the waves, keeping time by the tides.

But he didn't want to lose his human mind to the creature. He remembered that from the hyena. No conscience, easy choices, but he didn't want to give up his geeky, Star Trek-loving ways. He was just going to have to be a human.

He oriented himself to the ceiling and started a slow kick back to the shallow end. Through half-closed eyes, he watched the ceiling tiles pass overhead, and he enjoyed the slow glide of water over his skin. The painted lines on the ceiling changed color, and he slowed down before the wall came up.

The start platform came into view. So did a bleached blond head staring down.

"Should you be doing that?" Spike asked, frowning. "What with the cut-up arm and all?"


	7. Chapter 7

Spike was crouched on top of the platform, his hands dangling between his knees. The leather duster lay neatly folded on the next platform over. There was no sign of the expected smirk, until Spike's eyes left Xander's face and tracked down his still-floating body. Xander dropped his feet to the pool bottom and straightened.

"Come to finish the job?" he asked. He felt more angry than scared, and he was proud that the drunken apathy of that night in the park was nowhere around.

Spike stopped neither smirking nor looking. "I'm just here to make sure you're not finishing the job, whelp. Didn't drag you to hospital so's you could work yourself into a relapse."

"No relapses here. And as long as I don't get water in the wound, my arm will be fine. Along with my neck. So you can drop the Florence Nightingale thing and go home."

"Don't think so, pet. Too much happening around here for nummy treats like you to be wandering 'round alone. Specially with the Slayer out of town."

Xander's stomach tightened. "You know about that, huh?"

"You think folks don't keep an eye on what the Slayer's up to? You never know when something's going to happen that can be taken advantage of."

"Buffy didn't leave the place undefended."

Spike snorted. "As if Broody O'Hairgel and his pets are any replacement."

Xander almost mentioned the extra Watchers in town, but he remembered in time that he was talking to the enemy. "So Angel did go pay a call on you after all." He grinned at Spike's glower. "See, you're not the only one who knows things."

"You stay away from Angel. He gets distracted when the weird shit goes down, and people get hurt."

"And is the shit going to get particulary weird?"

Spike studied him. "Some of the weirdest. But nothing that involves you--or any of your little gang."

Xander debated telling him that everyone knew about the Aurelian power struggle. Would that be giving away an advantage or make any difference at all? He wasn't even sure how he wanted that to turn out. Sure, hooray for the challenger, kick Spike's ass, remove the annoying jerk for good. Except that left some chick Angel said was bad news in charge--and it meant no more Spike. Yay, no more Spike, the scary guy who bites your neck. But it was also no more Spike,  
the only guy who cared to make sure a drunken idiot didn't die. Sure, getting rid of Spike made the whole problem academic, but that was denial, and denial led to the clerk at Bosco's Discount Liquor greeting Xander by name.

"Angel told us about the Aurelian thing," he finally said. "He must have wanted Buffy to know why he was in town."

Spike scowled. "'Tisn't any of your business. Not the Slayer's, not the poof's. He tried throwing his weight around, tried to impress us with the big, nasty Angelus thing, but we didn't buy it."

Xander swallowed. "'We'. Did Angel and Giles . . ."

Spike's lips twitched. "They had words."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"He didn't hurt Giles, did he?"

Spike grinned. "Ripper can take care of himself, pet."

Xander shook his head. "Yeah, right, Ripper. You'd think I'd remember." He glared up at Spike. "Soulless fiends from hell, whose good deeds are an accident and who really just want to sink their teeth into your throat."

"You asked me to do that, whelp. Let's not forget that little--" He stopped and stared towards the locker room. "There's not supposed to be anyone here, is there?"

"Just me."

Spike flowed off the starting platform, still watching the locker room door. "Best get your attractively dripping self out of there and home, boy." He was away and through the door before Xander could comment.

His clothes were in the locker room, and Xander didn't fancy the idea of traipsing through the Sunnydale night wearing only a wet Speedo. He carefully hauled himself out of the pool, listening hard. He started shivering, then looked at Spike's duster. He could smell the cigarette smoke on it from three feet away. Public humiliation and endangerment vs. the possible fallout from just daring to touch the hallowed leather. It'd probably be too small for him anyway.

The locker room door slammed open as he reached for the duster. He jumped, and his sub-brain smacked him briefly for being relieved that the vampire stumbling out and snarling wasn't Spike.

The vampire looked around, then grinned when he spotted a human target. He charged, and Xander didn't even think, he jumped onto the starting platform next to the one with the duster and dove into the pool. The vampire followed with a roar and a splash.

Xander paused to look over his shoulder. The vampire was slogging through the chest-high water towards him, snarling. Xander felt smug, until he remembered that even if a vampire couldn't swim, it couldn't drown, either. Try for the far wall and hope he could get out and run faster than the vampire could fight his way through the water.

The vampire growled in frustration and tried to speed up, but water resistance worked even on the undead. Xander reached the wall under the diving board and started hoisting himself out. The vampire yelled something that Xander's high school memories recognized as French, then the shout was cut off by gurgling. He turned around in time to see the vampire's flailing hands disappear under water. He ducked his head underwater to look.

The vampire was sliding down the steep slope where the floor of the pool dropped into the deep water, helplessly scrabbling for a hold on the concrete bottom. Xander watched the vampire reach the bottom of the fourteen-foot deep section, scramble to his feet, then futilely try to jump for the surface.

Xander decided to stop questioning his good luck and get out of the pool before the vampire figured out to take off his boots and relearn how to float.

He pulled himself out of the water. He wasn't going outside mostly naked and dripping wet, so he carefully ran around the pool towards the duster. From there, it would only be a few steps to the emergency exit.

The locker room door slammed open again. The vampire running through the door was bleeding in several places. Xander grabbed a mop leaning against the wall, shoved it into the metal step on the nearest starting platform, and snapped the head off. He swung the jagged end of the wooden shaft around. 

The vampire snarled at Xander. "Je vous mangerai, ma viande tendre."

"Don't growl at me in languages I don't understand." Xander backed up a step to get his feet clear of a puddle. The vampire leered and moved forward.

Spike crashed through the locker room door, game faced and snarling. Xander thrust the mop handle towards the new vamp, who was turning to Spike. The vampire barely smacked the wooden shaft away. Spike hit the vampire from the side, carrying them both into the pool.

It was like an Animal Planet show about really big piranhas. The water seethed around the two fighting vampires, with blood spreading around. Xander winced. That was going to mess up the chemical balance in the pool.

The strange vampire slashed Spike's arm, driving Spike into destructive overdrive. The spreading dust pattered onto the surface of the water.

"Oh, that's going to play hell with the filters," Xander said.

Spike slowly turned his head. His still-yellow eyes did a slow survey of Xander's body, and the fanged mouth smiled. The demon's face flowed away to human angles, but the smirk didn't change. "You're dripping."

Xander swallowed hard. "I was just about to grab your duster to use for a towel."

If anything, Spike looked more amused. "That wouldn't be a good idea." He tossed his wet hair out of his face and slogged through the water towards the side of the pool.

He should have looked ridiculous, with his straggly, dripping hair and his wet shirts clinging to him in wrinkles. But as hard as he tried, Xander couldn't bring himself to laugh. Spike grabbed the metal bar on the underside of the starting platform and swung himself up out of the water. He grimaced as his boots squished on the tiles, then he pulled at the soaked blue jeans. 

"Should have stripped," he said. "Oh, well." He started unbuttoning his jeans.

"What the hell are you doing!" Xander demanded.

Spike blinked in a blasphemy of innocence. "Wet denim chafes."

Xander shook the broken mop handle at him. "Well, you can just chafe until I get out of here." He turned to stomp towards the locker room.

"Watch out for the dust pile."

Xander hesitated. "How many of them were there?"

Spike nodded at the water. "This one here, one in there, the one that charged out here first that you took care of."

"That I took care of?"

"Well, there's no vamp picking his teeth over your corpse. I assumed you took care of him."

Xander stared at him. "He might have just run off."

Spike leaned over to pick at the sodden bootlaces. "Nah, he figured I was busy with his two buddies, he wouldn't have bypassed a nummy snack like you." He grinned up at Xander. "Creatures of appetite, vampires." He caught himself. "Didn't you dust him?"

Xander shook his head.

"So where is he?"

"Uh . . ." Xander nodded towards the far end of the pool, where the water still churned and bounced.

Spike stared at him, then towards the water. "He's in the pool? What the hell is he doing in the pool?" He strode around the edge of the pool, Xander with him.

Spike stopped at the edge and stared down. Xander stood next to him and stared down as well.  
The vampire in the deep end had gained no new insights into how to get out of his predicament. He was currently trying to jump high enough to reach the bottom step built into the side of the pool just below the surface of the water. 

Spike snickered, and Xander fought a smile. "Won't that make diving practice tomorrow a bit more interesting," Spike grinned.

Xander lost the smile. "We can't leave him down there!"

"I can."

Muttering, Xander took a better grip on his broken-off mop handle and stepped towards the edge. Spike put an arm out to block him. "Move the arm, bleachie."

"You're not going down there and playing spear fisherman, pet."

"I'm not leaving him down there, either."

Spike glared at him. Xander glared right back. With a muttered curse, Spike crouched down to pick his wet bootlaces loose, then grabbed the mop handle out of Xander's hand. He shifted into game face and jumped into the water. Xander crouched down on the edge of the pool to watch. It didn't take long. The vampire on the bottom made some clumsy swipes at Spike, who kicked through the water easily. He got behind the vampire and shoved the mop handle through the heart with obvious impatience. He kicked back up to the surface through the shoals of spreading dust.

"There," he said, spitting water. "Satisfied?"

Xander blinked. "Uh, yeah. Thanks?"

Spike waved an arm. "Go get dressed, I want to get out of here."

Xander hesitated, wondering when his immediate future had gotten tangled up with Spike's, but getting some clothes on would make him feel a bit less--exposed. He forced himself not to look behind himself as he headed for the locker room. He didn't want to catch Spike watching him or for Spike to catch him wondering if he was being watched.

One of the ranks of lockers was smashed to the floor and covered in blood and dust. Xander paused to think of what he was going to tell Sid, then he went to the locker in the back where he had his clothes. No time for a shower, he'd get one at home. He started to shove his Speedo down his hips, wondered if there were watching vampire eyes around, then pulled up the Speedo and yanked his clothes on over his clammy skin. Coverage, warmth and home, those were the priorities.

He shoved his feet into his shoes, grabbed his wallet and headed out. Spike was lurking just inside the locker room. Xander tried not to notice that Spike looked like a pouty three-year-old denied a lollipop, and he ducked into the office.

"What are you doing, get out of there, whelp."

"I'm leaving Sid a note."

"No, you're not."

"Fuck off, Spike." He scribbled a quick note: "Sorry about the mess, things got weird, no one's hurt or dead who doesn't deserve to be. Check the filters and the chemical balance in the pool again."

Spike sneered as Xander came out of the office. "'Bout bloody time, let's get out of here."

Xander dodged the grabbing hand. "What is this 'let's'? I go home, you go home, that's in opposite directions, we're both good." He didn't argue, though, about heading at speed for the exits from the building.

The black De Soto was parked outside. Spike gestured toward the passenger door. "Get in,  
whelp."

"What? No!"

"I'm not going to spend time arguing, get in the bloody car!"

"The hell you say! Everybody knows, never get in the car when the bad guy tells you to. Get in the car, and bad things are going to happen. You're supposed to run away, because odds are they won't shoot, and if they shoot, they probably won't hit you, and even if they hit you, it probably won't be so bad. But if you get in the car, pffth, you're dead. So, no, Spike, I am not getting in the bloody car with you!" He caught his breath and got a good look at Spike's face. "And what is so fucking amusing!"

Spike stopped fighting the grin. "Wasn't it just a couple of days ago you couldn't be bothered to live, so you were happy to take the first chance at a messy death that came to hand? You've come a long way from trying to be vampire kibble in a graveyard."

Xander stared and wondered vaguely why he suddenly felt so tingly.

Spike nodded at the pool doors. "You stood up to a couple of vamps with nothing but a skimpy swimsuit, some bandages, and a mop handle. That's a bit more like the idiotically fearless Harris I know and . . ." He let the words drift off to a smirk.

Xander tried to remember to be pissed off. "Why were you here tonight?" 

Spike looked around at the night. "Just checking, like I said." The smirk reappeared. "Remember, nobody gets to kill you but me."

"That reminds me," Xander said, "thanks for saving my life."

He hadn't realized how much fun a flustered vampire could be. Spike went for his cigarettes in his trademark "better to be thought a nicotine addict than a fidgeter" way.

"Why'd you do it?" Now Xander wanted to know. "I wasn't trying to stop you. You had what you wanted. Why didn't you finish it?" The remembered bitterness oozed back. "A drunken,  
useless Harris isn't worth killing?"

The cold, blue, killer's eyes came up to meet his. "No, he isn't. Not when I can get better."

Xander had to admit that Spike was right. He didn't want to die anymore. "So you are here to finish the job." Stupid, to forget that the wisecracking guy who helped you fight was the top predator in the jungle.

Spike leaned back against the car, looking at Xander through half-closed eyes. "Could finish it." Xander did not for a moment think that the relaxed pose was anything but a lie. "But then you'd be dead and I'd be bored."

"Heaven forbid."

"You wouldn't like me if I was bored."

Xander wasn't sure if that vampiric smile spoke of imminent threat or amusement. It was the kind of smile that might come out while something evil was rummaging through a victim's small intestine. Or it might be the kind of smile of someone sharing a joke with a friend. It could be both, and what did it mean that Xander was getting so familiar with Spike that he could read his smiles?

"You don't have to worry about getting bored, Spike," said a new voice from out of the darkness. Angel strode around the corner of the building, all glowers and black leather coat. "I'm happy to make your life just as interesting as you can handle." He came to a stop a few feet away and crossed his arms.

"Oh, god," Xander sighed, "Undead testosterone duels." He looked at his watch as Angel and Spike proceeded to glare at each other. Spike didn't move from his slouch against his car, but it was clear he'd be on Angel at the slightest provocation. Angel's shoulders kept tensing and relaxing as if he kept himself from lunging only second by second.

Xander glanced at his watch again. Three minutes and counting. "Well, you guys obviously have a lot of catching up to do, so I'll just leave you two to it. Good night."

"You stay put, whelp," Spike said, not looking away from his glaring.

"You can't tell him what to, Spike," Angel countered.

Xander nodded. "And the vote goes to Dead Boy, for a change. Again, good night."

Angel looked away from Spike. "But you really shouldn't wander around alone."

Xander sighed. "You can't tell me what to do either, you know."

Spike smirked. "Yeah, Angel, stop telling Xander what to do. What brings you around here anyway? Which one of us are you following?"

"Spike, just--" Angel blinked, and the focused animosity diffused into equal parts confusion and annoyance. He stared at Spike, then at Xander, then back. "Why are you wet?"

Angel recognized the twist of Spike's smile. The next words out of Spike's mouth were likely going to be something about stupid potato farmers or hair gel. The familiar glint appeared in Spike's eye, but he glanced over at the annoyed looking Xander, and unexpected seriousness appeared.

"Just a spot of spearfishing, but the catch got away."

"What?"

"Parlez-vous francais?" Spike asked.

"Of course I do," he frowned.

"So do I," Xander added. He grinned smugly when Angel looked at him.

"They teach it in the high schools," Spike said.

Angel remembered Buffy complaining about her homework and how he'd wanted to give her private lessons. "Parlate italiano?"

"Which dialect?" Spike answered in the Italian of Rome.

"OK, now you're just showing off," Xander complained.

Spike smiled just a little, but it faded quickly. "We were jumped by three vamps," he said, continuing in Italian. "Speaking French. Does that make any connection in your gel-encrusted brain?"

Angel let the insult slide. "Aurelians?"

"Unless you know of another bunch of Frogs vacationing on the Hellmouth."

"Were they after you or just wandering by?

"They knew who I was, but they didn't waste any time on the kinds of speeches megalomaniacs like to indulge in. You remember, Angelus was a fan of the showy gesture."

Angel wondered what it would do to the Aurelian power struggle if he ripped Spike's head off before Fleur du Mal made her move. Best not to muddy the waters. "You said 'we'. They went after Xander?" He managed not to show surprise at the flicker of concern on Spike's face. 

"I think he was just handy. I don't know if they saw us talking or not." He shrugged. "Still, they won't be going back to Madame to report anything."

"And it worries you, that Fleur might know you're interested in Xander?"

Spike glared. "It's none of the humans' business, what's going on. They're best kept out of it."

Angel smirked. "If you don't want 'the humans' involved in your business, then you might want to stop lurking in Buffy's front yard and jumping into swimming pools with Xander Harris."

"Look, Peaches--" Spike stopped, then looked around. "Where did he go?"

"Who?" Then Angel noticed that Xander was no longer in view.

"Damn it . . ." Spike sniffed audibly. "Stupid whelp, I told him to stay put."

Angel's hand in his chest stopped Spike from going far. "I thought you said he was best kept out of things. Why do you care where he's going?"

Spike slapped the hand away so hard Angel wondered if his wrist was broken. "You lost the right to call me to account a century ago, Angel. Stay out of my business."

"You're messing with Buffy and her people. That makes it my business."

Spike smiled very slightly. "Oh, yes, the Slayer's people. Not sure if the boy counts anymore."

"You're playing your divide and conquer game again, aren't you. It won't work on these kids, they're too close." Angel frowned as Spike's smile became more pronounced. "What?"

"Oh, no, far be it from me to correct you, you who know the Scoobies so very well."

Angel debated grabbing Spike and shaking the truth out of him. Not that that ever worked very well, the truth in Spike was always a very tight fit and didn't come loose that easy. Better to prick him until he threw the information away willingly. He looked in the direction Xander had gone, then back to Spike.

"Why are you making such a fuss over somebody you used to call the Doughnut Boy? I thought you despised him."

"Him I did despise," Spike said easily. "But he doesn't live here anymore. You don't know this Harris."

Not that he ever had, Angel mused. "And you do?" Spike pulled out yet another cigarette instead of answering. "Why the bite, Spike? Why'd you do it if you weren't going to finish it? And why hasn't Buffy hunted you down for hurting one of her own?"

Spike grinned through the lighter's flame. "That's between me and the boy."

Angel blinked. "And you wouldn't tell her . . . Xander didn't tell them it was you."

The cigarette end flared into life, and Spike smirked as the smoke left his lips. "But you know the boy, don't you."

"I know you, and I know you can be as persuasive as the devil when you want." Angel hated that Spike looked flattered, but it was simple truth. "You're not trying some weird gothic courting thing that went out with the Romantic poets, are you?" He had to laugh. "But then, I forgot who I'm talking to, didn't I."

He stopped laughing when he saw Spike's face. It was the kind of look he associated with hot pokers and "Eine Kleine Nachtmusik."

"Sunnydale is my town," Spike said softly. "Those are my minions out there. You might want to keep track of your own minions while you're here. Ripper's mentioned some things he thought might be interesting to try out on another Watcher." The smile was feral. "You'd be proud of him, Angelus, a chip off the old block. But he's got more patience than you ever did. Keep that in mind if you're thinking of staging any more family reunions."

Angel wanted to challenge him, wanted to smack respect back into those hard eyes. But he knew the threat against Wesley and Gunn was real. "Going to let your thugs do the work, huh? Scared to come after me yourself?"

Spike eased back towards the De Soto. "You know me, Peaches. I like to fight dirty." He paused to look in the direction Xander had gone, then back to Angel. "And if you let him get hurt tonight, you'll get an extensive reminder." He reached behind him for the car door handle, slid inside, then fired up the engine and roared away.

Angel didn't make much of an effort to be stealthy as he went after Xander. "What the hell is he using as a brain," he muttered, not certain if he was thinking about Xander or Spike. "How the hell he's survived as long as he has I'll never know." He spotted Xander standing by a car in the parking lot and headed over.

Xander didn't look up as he put a key in the car door lock. "For a creature of the night, you make a lot of noise."

"Why didn't you tell Buffy it was Spike who bit you?"

"It never came up."

"It never--what?"

Xander sighed and turned. "Angel, I'm tired, I'm hungry, I'm coming down off a fight, and I'm wearing wet spandex. Why are you bothering me?"

Angel stared at him. Maybe it hadn't just been high school that made Xander Harris so hard to cope with. Maybe it was just his nature. "What is going on between you and Spike?"

Xander stared off into the night. "He saved my life."

"Xander, 'failing to kill you off' does not equal saving your life. It just means he didn't kill you."

"He didn't have to stop. And he didn't have to take me to the hospital."

"He took you to the hospital? Why?"

"Probably to make sure I didn't die. IE, saving my life." Xander smiled as Angel blinked at him. "You'll have to ask him if you want to know why." He opened his car door. "I'm going to go home now, take a shower, and go to bed, all hopefully in a completely vampire free environment. Good night."

"Xander, wait--"

"For what?"

"Spike can't be trusted."

Xander glared at him. "Can't be trusted to do what? Be a vampire? Trust me, Deadboy, I've learned my lessons about how far to trust a vampire."

Angel clenched his fists. "You wouldn't have hesitated to run to Buffy and tell her everything if I had hurt you."

"That's because I knew that underneath that whole 'I'm just a sad, harmless guy' act, you were still one of the killers."

"Spike is not your friend."

"Lots of people aren't my friend. I'm learning to be content with people who don't lie to me or want to pretend that everything's fine when nothing is."

Angel had to take a step away so he couldn't reach Xander and shake some sense into him. "Xander, Spike is using you. He's playing with you for his own twisted ends."

"How stupid to you think I am? No, don't answer that." Xander took a deep breath. "I know what he's doing. Just now, though, I'm not sure I care."

"You have to care."

"Why?"

Angel felt colder than usual. "You have to care because--because that's what people do. They care about being used."

Xander's smile was grim. "Better than being useless, isn't it?" He pulled his car door open farther. "Go away, Angel. I haven't changed so much that I'm willing to spend any more time with you than necessary."

Angel knew his mouth was hanging open as he watched yet another idiot climb in their car and drive away from him. 


	8. Chapter 8

Spike had the De Soto pushing 70 when he entered the Sunrise Grove development. The rough pavement finally made him slow down, and he finally decided not to ram the garage doors. He leaned on the horn hard, though, to summon the current door minion to let him in. 

He stalked game-faced through the hallways of the rec center. Fred saw him, then made a quick path change towards the gymnasium. "Evenin', boss," he called over his shoulder, letting one of the new recruits get between himself and Spike. The new recruit looked at Spike, squeaked, and found an elsewhere to be.

The fear mitigated some of Spike's residual Angel-anger. He still needed some way to blow off steam. He took a deep breath, searching for Dru and/or Ripper. They were downstairs, and he headed off, preparing his rant against Angel. They could probably get a good three-part harmony going, and it might be a good idea to do something permanent about the damned poof.

Ripping Angel apart and using him as hors d'oeuvres at the "Deal with the Aurelians" bash that needed to happen was a pleasant idea. Spike snarled to himself. Damned interfering power-grabbers. You'd think the fate of the Anointed Git would have taught them something.

The idea of Dead Angel kept pinging him in all the wrong ways, though. There was always that first rush of evil glee at the idea, but then he'd remember that once Angel was dead there'd be no more doing nasty things to him.

Perhaps Angelus would be better to have around?

The memory of the wheelchair and all that attendant shit made him snarl, and three more of the riff raff scurried away.

"Bloody damned poof and his stupid hair and his stupid face and his stupid stupidity," he muttered as he stomped down the hallway to Ripper's room. He opened the door and felt his mind erase.

Dru was playing. She was perched above Ripper, who didn't seem to mind that he was chained naked to his own bed. Dru wore only a smile and her long, dark hair. The slim dagger in her hand skimmed over Ripper's chest, which bore the drying traces of quite an involved game of something. He gasped as she leaned down to lick the new welling blood from his skin, then she rocked back, humming happily to herself.

She smiled down at Ripper. "Spike should come and play with us, shouldn't he, my owl."

"Uh . . ." Ripper seemed to have lost every one of those several languages he knew.

Spike didn't even realize he was removing clothing until he felt the air on his skin. Then he was on the bed behind Dru, putting an arm around her while he kissed her neck. "He's fun to play with, isn't he, pet."

Dru wiggled back against him, making both men gasp. "We were just waiting for you to come home, sweet. Play with us?"

There had been something he was thinking about, wasn't there, Spike mused as he reached down to join Drusilla in forcing Ripper to make interesting sounds. "If I'd known you were waiting I'd have hurried."

"Did you find the kitten?" Dru asked. "Did you rub his tummy and make him purr?"

"He still spits and swats at me, love. But he's almost ready to come to my hand."

"Then he can play with us, too."

Spike chuckled at the idea, then he decided he'd been serious too long.

* * *

As the morning sun cleared the horizon, Warren Mears settled at his bank of computer monitors in the basement of his house. "Gentlemen, we are about to go online." 

Jonathan hurried over, munching on an Egg McMuffin. "I'm still not sure I got the one in the kitchen set up right. I'm worried about interference from the microwave."

"That shouldn't be a problem when they aren't nuking something. Andrew, where did you put the bathroom camera?"

"Um . . ."

Warren swivelled his chair around. "Andrew."

Andrew crumpled the top of the McDonald's take-out bag. "I really don't think Buffy's going to be plotting anything against us in the bathroom."

"That's not the point. We agreed, cameras in every room." He smirked. "Any interesting video is just incidental." He pulled a book out of his back pack. "And possibly useful for research."

"What's that?" Jonathan asked.

"Buffy's photo album."

Andrew gasped. "She's going to be pissed when she sees that's gone." He hurried over. "What's in it?"

They skipped quickly over pictures of Summers family vacations and gaggles of middle school girls. Warren paused at a shot of bikini-clad Buffy on a beach.

"I can work with that," he murmured.

"Work with what?" Andrew asked.

Warren considered his cohorts. "The hardest part of any advanced electronics project is the programming. There are variables and objectives to be considered. Hardware, on the other hand, is relatively easy. One just needs the proper framework for the program to fit into. The outer shell is often just window dressing." He ran a finger along picture-Buffy's leg. "You can make that outer shell look like anything you want."

Jonathan stopped rummaging through the McDonald's bag. "You're thinking again, Warren."

"What are you thinking?" Andrew asked.

Warren smiled. "Just that it might be fun to have our own version of Buffy around to do . . . stuff."

"Stuff?"

"What kind of stuff?" Jonathan added.

"Oh . . . dusting the lab in a French maid's outfit. Bringing us food and drink. Anything we tell her."

Jonathan gasped. "You're thinking about another girl-bot."

Andrew's eyes were big. "Wow. The Slayer waiting on you hand and foot."

"Among other things." Warren resumed glaring at Andrew. "Which is why footage from the bathroom would be useful."

"Well, it makes sense now that you explain it, but it wouldn't be just Buffy on camera. It'd be Dawn, which is just wrong, and it would Mrs. Summers, and that's even more wrong. Do you really want footage of somebody's mom?"

Warren and Jonathan shuddered. "But did you put the camera in the bathroom or not?" Warren asked.

"I put two in Buffy's bedroom instead, one pointed at her closet and one pointed at her dresser."

"That should work." Warren flipped a few more pages in the album. He stopped at a picture of Buffy and her crew looking like they'd just been in a fight. They were also wearing various scraps of graduation robs and sporting smiles and diploma scrolls. To one side of the group stood Mr.  
Giles, who Warren remembered was the high school librarian as well as being Buffy's Watcher.

"Whatever happened to Rupert Giles?" he asked. "Didn't he use to own that magic shop on Main Street?"

Jonathan and Andrew glanced at each other. "You don't know?" Andrew said.

"Would I ask if I did?"

Jonathan shrugged. "That's right, you do pay more attention to the science end. Still, it was big news in the mystic parts of town. He got turned about a year ago."

"Turned? As in turned into a vampire? Is he still in town?"

"Haven't you been keeping up with anything?"

Andrew stood protectively by Warren's chair. "He's been busy."

Warren waved a hand. "Just tell me what's going on. And how do you know things when I don't?"

"Demons like to gossip," Andrew shrugged.

Jonathan nodded. "And now that management's changed at the Magic Box and more non-humans go in there, you can overhear all sorts of interesting things while you're looking at spell components."

Warren leaned back. "Aligning the cameras in the Summers house can wait. Andrew, get me a Dr. Pepper. Jonathan, tell me what's going on with the vampires of Sunnydale."

* * *

Like Las Vegas in daylight, Willy's Bar at noon looked more than a little pathetic and lost. Even the dust seemed to cringe away from the light that came in as Gunn accompanied Wesley into the bar. Last night had ended in yelling and chair throwing and Angel slipping out the back door looking both chagrined and pleased. 

The Backstreet Boys crooned from the jukebox, and a pale blue thing with multiple eyes swayed and sang along from a table in the corner. No one else was in the place as Gunn and Wesley settled in at the bar.

"Never thought I'd see the day when I thought of Caritas as being high class," Gunn said.

Wesley smiled. "I doubt Lorn would be caught dead in a place like this. Not at all to his standards."

Willy came out of the back room laboring under a box of glassware. He dropped the box carefully on the back counter, turned, and squeaked when he saw the new arrivals. He checked the corners of the barroom anxiously.

"He didn't come with us," Wesley said. "He said he had a headache after last night."

Willy humphed. "Should think so, after the trouble he caused." He looked pointedly towards a pool table that had been split in half and was still lying in pieces on the floor.

Wesley nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid Sunnydale doesn't agree with him anymore. Which is why we decided to come back ourselves and see if we could chat with you in calmer circumstances."

Willy turned back to the box of glassware. "Chat?"

Gunn rested his elbows on the bar. "Yeah, chat. See, I ain't never been to this little burg before, there's all sorts of things I'm curious about. First off, I'm curious why you haven't asked if we wanted anything to drink yet. I'm starting to feel like we may not be welcome."

"Yes," Wesley added, "I think a drink would be quite pleasant just about now."

Willy sighed. "What'll it be, then?"

After filling the order for a beer for Gunn and a screwdriver for Wesley, Willy tried to slink away. "By the way," Gunn said, "who were those dudes in that far booth last night giving Angel such dirty looks?"

"And why didn't they join in when the ruckus started?" Wesley added.

Willy looked around again, sighed, then came back. "You can't tell nobody I told you this stuff, all right?"

"Cross my heart," Gunn said.

Wesley raised his right hand. "Not a soul."

"All right. Those guys in the corner, those were some of a new crew of vamps in town. They're not part of Spike's bunch, some of them are foreign, not so good with the English. And they all get all twitchy when Spike or Angel's name gets mentioned."

Gunn and Wes looked at each other. "New group of vampires, eh?" Wesley said. "I thought Spike was considered to be in charge here. Are they looking to cause trouble?"

"Yeah, him and Ripper, they're pretty much the bosses. But there's supposed to be this old vampire muckey-muck living up in Angel's old digs on Crawford Street. Her folks have been coming in, asking questions and muttering to themselves."

"Her?" Wesley asked.

"Flower something. Too high falutin' to be seen in my place, from what I hear."

"Why is she here? Is there a turf war brewing?"

"Isn't that why you and Angel are here?" He leaned closer. "Confidentially, is Angel backing the new vamps against Spike? I know how those two hate each other."

"Confidentially? You're not going to hear anything about Angel's plans from us."

Gunn hid his snicker in his beer. Willy glanced hopefully his way, and Gunn just shook his head.

"Are these new vampires preparing for something?" Wesley asked. "A clever businessman like yourself can't enjoy the idea of your clientele at odds."

Willy studied him. "Tell you what, I'll tell you what I've heard the new folks are planning, and you'll tell me what your old pals are planning."

"My old pals?"

"The new guys from England. The ones who came in here acting like they didn't want their shoes touching the floor too long."

Wesley went still. "Watchers." Gunn looked over at his tight tone of voice.

"Yep."

"They've been in asking about vampires?"

"Vampires in general, the new bunch in passing, Ripper and Angel in specific."

"What have you told them about Angel and Ripper?"

Willy went back to wiping the already clean glasses. "You know, as the years catch up to me, my memory ain't what it used to be. I need reminders."

Wesley glanced at Gunn, who shrugged. "Ain't our town, English. Does it really matter what they know up here?"

"I doubt Angel wants his political leanings discussed. Still . . ." Wesley looked back at Willy. "I can tell you that Angel and Spike have met since Angel came back to Sunnydale. And they both walked away from the meeting unharmed."

Willy leaned back against the counter. "I'd've thought they'd go for each others' throat. You know this for certain?"

Gunn drained his beer glass. "Know it? We were there. Angel walked in to Spike's crib, words were thrown around, we walked out again." He leaned forward. "So, that's our news. What about the English crew?"

After a moment, Willy sighed and nodded. "They've been asking for Ripper, mostly. They've actually been here a while. I know why they're here, why they're after Ripper. It took me a while to remember, but I know who Ripper used to be. Poor Slayer."

Wesley frowned. "You run a bar for demons, and you care about the Slayer?"

"Hey, the Slayer and me, we've got an understanding. I drop her hints every now and then, she doesn't come in and bust up the place. She's figuring out that not everybody who's got horns and scales is out to cause trouble. I like her."

Gunn looked at Wesley. "Is this anything we didn't know, English? We already knew what the old school tie crowd is after."

Wesley still looked worried. "Except I don't know what's taking them so long to act. It's been over a year since Giles . . . well . . ."

Willy shrugged. "I'm guessing it took them this long to figure out what happened, and when they showed up to investigate, they weren't prepped to take on Ripper and Spike and all that. I heard them talking about wanting reinforcements. I think they were about ready to move, then the Aurelians showed up, followed by Angel, and now Drusilla's in town. Last time I saw him, the head Watcher couldn't decide if he liked having so many targets in one place or if he wanted to yell for help."

"You pick all that up just by serving drinks?" Gunn asked.

"You think I managed to survive this long by being dumb?"

Wesley tossed some money on the bar and stood. "Not in the least. Do you know anything of what Fleur du Mal is up to?"

"Fluer du--oh, the bigwig. Watchin'. Waitin'. Probably waiting to see how things blow up and what pieces'll be left behind."

"Vampires do have a different sense of time than we do."

Gunn and Wesley headed towards the door. The blue thing in the corner continued to hum along to the juke box. Gunn shook his head once they were back on the sunny street and the door to the bar closed behind them. "Weird shit, man. Weird shit."

"Indeed." They started down the street towards Angel's convertible.

"Did we learn anything worth the trip?"

"I'm not sure. We know all the various factions are indeed keeping an eye on each other, maneuvering around and waiting for someone else to make the first move."

"Ain't gonna be pretty when that move gets made."

"No, it's not."

"Who do you think's going to move first?"

Wesley stopped walking. "The impatient humans, I imagine."

Gunn stopped and looked around. A big car with darkened windows pulled up beside them. He and Wes took simultaneous steps back away from the curb, making sure to stay in sunlight. The rear passenger window slid down.

"Hello, Quentin," Wesley said.

"Hello, Wesley," the older man in the back of the car replied.

Gunn stared at the man. Angel had talked about Watchers, and when Wesley was drunk, he mentioned enough about his old life to tell Gunn that there were a lot of unresolved issues between Wes and his old bosses. Those phone calls back to the homeland left him depressed, and even Cordy went out of her way to be extra-appreciative of the skinny English guy on those days.

All that defensive English reserve was back in Wes' body language as he looked at the head Watcher, and the superiority in the Watcher's smile raised Gunn's hackles.

"Charles Gunn," Wes said, "Quentin Travers, head of the Watcher's Council."

"I guessed," Gunn said, staring at the man in the car.

Quentin Travers' smile didn't change. "I've heard of you, Mr. Gunn. We thought it wise to keep one ear on the doings in Los Angeles."

"I just bet you did."

"What do you want, Quentin?" Wesley asked. "And if you tell me you merely want to renew old acquaintances, I shall walk away."

"Well, my boy, I do want to renew acquaintance, but there's also Watcher business to discuss."

"Then you should talk to a Watcher about it." Wes turned on his heel and strode away. Gunn hesitated, then followed.

"You should talk to him," he told Wesley when he caught up.

"I've got nothing to say to him."

"Yeah, but he might have something interesting to say to you."

Wes hesitated, then he shook his head. "I'm not prepared to dance to his tune for whatever crumbs he deigns to drop." He sighed. "I suppose that makes me cowardly."

Gunn shook his head. "You work with the crew you trust." He held out his fist, and Wes punched it. "'Sides, there are better ways to spend time than to talk to stuffy English people." He hoped his grin got his point across.

Wes smiled back. "Indeed. I'd rather spend the time driving up Crawford Street to see what's there." He laughed at Gunn's pout.

They had just reached Angel's convertible and opened the doors when Travers' car rolled up again. Gunn and Wes both stiffened as the back door opened.

"Quentin," Wesley said, "I already told you--"

Travers stepped out of the car and closed the door. "I know, you have no desire to discuss Watcher things. But may I discuss the current situation with you? With both of you?" he added, nodding at Gunn. "You two do know the current players better than I."

Wesley glanced at Gunn, who shrugged. Wesley shrugged himself and pushed the back of the driver's seat forward to give access to the back seat. "We're just about to drive up to scout the enemy base. You're welcome to come along."

Travers hesitated very briefly, then put on a polite smile and climbed into the convertible. He waved at the driver of his car, who drove away. Gunn and Wes shared another look, then got into the convertible.

Crawford Street wound through the foothills above Sunnydale, past large houses and manicured lawns. Normal sounds of life came from those houses: lawnmowers, children playing, power tools from someone's workshop.

The road went around a bend, and the landscaping turned feral. Massive rhododendron bushes shrouded the house from view, and the grass was long and yellowish.

"I bet one match would send the place up," Gunn said as they drove slowly past.

They passed the opening to the driveway, went around a curve, then coasted to the side of the road farther up the slope. Wesley looked back down the hill thoughtfully.

"Are we really going to set the place ablaze?" Travers asked, sounding almost eager.

"No," Wesley said after a moment. "They have wards up, and I doubt a vampire as old as Fleur du Mal is foolish enough to forego guards that can go out in the daytime."

Gunn looked around at the hills. "Probably just as well. It's still awful dry up here, and I don't want to tell the Slayer girl that we're responsible for setting her town on fire."

"It wouldn't be the first time a town was put to flame to destroy a demonic infestation," Travers observed.

Wesley glared over his shoulder. "Some old traditions are best left in the past." He glared back in the direction of the house. "The house itself makes a respectable fortress. There's more magic going on than just the wards, too. If the Aurelians are here expecting to challenge Spike for the leadership of the order, then they know they have to look to their defenses. A frontal assault, even in daytime, would be a very bad idea."

Gunn loved hearing Wesley being competent and decisive, but there were iffy memories that went along with it. "You're not thinking a sacrificial diversion would do the trick?"

"Not at this time," Wes said in that brittle voice that told Gunn he'd need to apologize later.

In the back seat, Travers was nodding. "You've gotten good at this sort of thing, Wesley. Strategy and magic."

Wesley stared at the steering wheel. "I do my best."

"It was a mistake to let you go. My organization has lost too many talented men recently, I need to fix that."

"But it's not just your organization, Quentin. Yours was not the only voice calling for my ouster. Besides, I have no desire to return to the Watcher organization. I'm doing good work where I am."

Gunn grinned at the small sidelong smile Wes sent him.

Travers sighed. "I understand. You and Rupert, both of you happier and more suited to the field. God, what a waste."

"Excuse me?" Wesley said.

"Not you, Wesley. Rupert. I saw him a few days ago, and . . ."

"Where was this?"

"At my hotel. He was waiting for me to return."

Wes looked horrified. "What happened?"

Travers waved his hand. "Just the usual 'leave while you still can' thing. He wanted to lord his new state over me. Dammit, the Rupert Giles I knew would be horrified at what he's become."

Wesley gripped the steering wheel hard. "Yes, he would."

"How well did you know him, Wes?" Gunn asked.

"I worked with him for a year here in Sunnydale, but that was before . . ."

"Back in your dweeb days?" He grinned at the amused, annoyed look he got.

"Yes, before I learned to relax." All amusement faded. "I admired him and was dismayed by him. He disobeyed the rules, yet Buffy was a very successful Slayer and they'd defended the Hellmouth for years. The stories I was told . . ."

Travers chuckled. "Rupert was very fierce when we came to talk about Glorificus. He and his Slayer stood up against anything." There was silence for a moment. "We can't leave him like this, Wesley."

"No," Wesley said softly, "we can't."

Gunn remembered his sister, Alonna. He'd rejoiced when he saw her walking towards him, apparently unharmed, and a little voice inside had said, "It might not be so bad." Then he'd met her eyes and she'd spoken to him, and his grief had changed to horror and rage. Such a creature should not parade around wearing the form of someone he loved.

"It's strange to think," Travers went on, "that each one of those monsters we hunt is some family's grief. Perhaps even William the Bloody was mourned by someone. And then they go on and cause more grief. I wish I could believe we'd be able to wipe vampires completely from the earth." He looked down the hill towards the demon-possessed house. "But we have a unique opportunity to deal them a severe blow."

Wes looked over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"There's a high-ranking Aurelian elder and her entourage within reach. As opposed to simply gangs of fledges, we have the chance to destroy several old and apparently influential vampires." Travers was beginning to sound positively enthusiastic. "We have this Fleur du Mal, we have William the Bloody, Drusilla is said to be here--"

"And Angel?" Wesley added.

Travers studied him. "Yes. Angelus is here."

"His name is Angel."

"Despite his name, he is still a vampire. Where do your loyalties lie, Wesley? With the humans or with the vampires?"

Wesley stared back at him. "With the humans. Which happens to be Angel's side, as well."

"It's only his side as long as his soul is present. And he seems to lose grip of his soul with disturbing regularity."

Wesley dropped his eyes.

"Don't you worry about the evil twin," Gunn said. "We've got plans to deal with him. Angel decided to run an Angelus drill a couple months ago, and he took a couple of crossbow bolts before we figured out what he was up to. He was a few days healing up from that."

Travers glared at him. "You mustn't underestimate these creatures."

"And you mustn't underestimate us." Gunn leaned closer. "I know what the vampires do. You guys with the funny accents and the bad teeth can't define the fighters, and you can't define the fight."

"Actually, we can, Mr. Gunn. We've been defining the fight for over a milennium."

"So how out of date is your dictionary?"

"Charles," Wesley murmured in apparent disapproval, but there was a faint smile on his face. Gunn turned around and leaned back in his seat, ignoring Travers, who humphed and leaned back as well.

Wesley drove a little farther up the road to a place where he could turn around. They drove back to Travers' hotel in silence. Wesley stopped the car and got out to let Travers climb awkwardly out of the back seat. Travers paused to look at Wesley.

"I'm not lying to you, Wesley. We want you back with the Council. Think of the work you could do with our resources."

"Yes, I'm well aware of the work I could do. Faith is doing well, by the way. Angel visits her regularly. She's apparently a model prisoner."

Travers blinked. "What has that to do with anything?"

Wesley smiled faintly. "To you, obviously, nothing. Good afternoon, Quentin." Travers nodded curtly and went into the hotel.

"Jerk," Gunn muttered.

"He's a Watcher," Wesley said, getting back in and starting the car. "They're all like that."

"Then it's a good thing you dumped them--and yeah, they may have fired you, but now they want you back, but you won't have them, so you dumped them."

Wesley's smile was more relaxed. "So I did. Still, they may be gits, but they're dangerous gits."

"So what do we do?"

"We'd best find Angel."

* * *

The candle flames were actually will-o-the-wisps, but it took a couple of hours for Tara to notice. By then, she was so mellow after a dorm-cooked dinner and wine that she only felt a twinge of disapproval. She and Willow were curled up under the cover in bed, Miss Kitty on a pillow between them. They were reading to each other from various books, Tara from an herbal, and Willow from a book of runes. 

"If you soaked garlic in holy water," Tara mused, "I wonder if the water would still be holy."

"Too bad we don't have any test vampires around," Willow said. "I always meant to ask Spike if other holy symbols affected him the way crosses do. I mean, why should crosses be so special? Why not Stars of David, or--or Islamic crescents or Hands of Fatima and all that?"

Tara smiled rather than answer. It was an old rant, why a Christian symbol should get all the glory. "Would you believe Spike if he told you?"

"Well--we could have hidden around corners and jumped out and showed him the symbols and seen how he reacted."

"I'm sure he would have appreciated that."

Willow closed her book with a finger to mark her place. "Age must change how they react. When Angel was around all the time, Buffy still wore her cross a lot, and Angel didn't seem to mind. I ought to ask before he leaves town again."

"Um, maybe you ought to ask Wesley, first. Angel might not want to talk about it."

Willow sighed and nodded. "I bet Giles would know."

Tara studied her for a moment. "But you can't ask Mr. Giles."

"No. I guess not."

Tara cuddled closer and looked over Willow's shoulder. "What are you reading?"

"Oh! Runic circles of ward and protection. There are circles you can put around a house to keep evil things out. It's a little bit like the spell that can revoke a vampire's invitation to a home. We had to use that when Angel went bad."

"Did you have to apply it at each entrance, or did it apply to the whole house?"

"It applied to the whole house. I was wondering if there was a way to make the spell think all of Sunnydale was one home so we could cast it and keep vampires out."

"Wouldn't you need to make sure all the vampires were out, first?"

Willow shrugged. "There are a few details that need to be worked out." She opened the book again. "Then there are the circles of protection. Those should be able to be scaled up, too."

Tara frowned. "Circles need to be perfect circles. Those are hard to do when they're too big. And everything I've ever read says a protection circle is no help against anything harmful sealed into the circle with you."

"That just means another spell needs to be done. There are all these runes for use against things with evil intent. They must have a way to detect that intent, it's just a matter of plugging them in correctly." She gazed off. "In fact, there must be a way to construct a system that would go looking for evil intent. We'd need to figure a way to define the limits of Sunnydale, then the spell would go looking for people and creatures that mean us harm. Then we could go looking for them instead of waiting for them to come to us. Oh, that would make Buffy's life so much easier." She dove back into the book.

"But how would you define harm?" Tara asked carefully.

"That's obvious, sweetie. We could set this so it would find people who wanted to hurt us or wanted to take over the town or open the Hellmouth or something."

"So--you would set it so that it looked at people's thoughts?"

"Sure, you'd have to. If you wait for somebody to actually do something, then you're too late. If we catch them while they're still just thinking about things, then we can keep people from getting hurt."

"But--lots of people think about things that they don't intend to do. Sometimes it makes them feel better, and they'd never dream of actually carrying out their plans."

Willow nodded. "Yeah, I would have gotten in trouble for all the times I thought of turning Cordelia's hair into snakes." She flipped through the pages. "So there has to be a way to detect when someone's about to put things into action."

Tara stroked her hair. "You aren't really planning on putting together a spell that would watch people's thoughts, are you?"

"Why not?" Willow blinked. "It would really give Buffy an edge upon stopping problems. I bet she'd even find those guys who robbed the museum and everything!"

"Uh, wouldn't it take a lot of power? It would have to watch everybody, all the time."

Willow frowned. "Plus you'd have to be monitoring it all the time, too, to make sure you didn't miss anything. Though I bet you could put in an alarm. Except for false alarms, when someone's thinking about something but doesn't really mean to do it. Oh, it would be so much easier if we could make everyone just behave . . ."

Her eyes slowly went bigger, and Tara swallowed hard. She pulled herself together and leaned closer to Willow's ear. "You don't want to make everyone behave," she whispered. "Isn't it fun to be naughty sometimes?" She planted a soft kiss just below Willow's ear.

Willow blinked, then turned and smiled back.

An hour or so later, Miss Kitty returned to the bed, still aggrieved at having been disturbed so rudely. Willow extended her petting of Tara's hair to the cat. Miss Kitty purred as she settled in behind Tara's neck.

"Both content as sleepy kitties," Willow whispered.

"I love you," Tara said, her eyes half closed.

Willow kissed her forehead. "I love you, too. Go to sleep, sweetheart. I like watching you sleep."

Tara tried to blink awake. "We have to clean up the dinner dishes."

"They can wait." She drew light lines on Tara's forehead. "Sleep, my Tara."

When Tara's eyes were closed and her breathed had softened, Willow slipped out of bed. She dispelled the fading will-o-the-wisps from the candles and cast a cleaning spell on the dishes. After a few minutes to see if Tara woke up, she quickly pulled clothes on and put a silencing spell on the door before she opened it, then closed it behind her.

A few moments later, Tara opened her eyes, letting tears escape.

Willow found the way to Sunrise Grove easy after all this time. She sometimes wondered what the vampires' neighbors though of her, that they never bothered her. Or maybe her shield spell was so good that they never knew she was there.

A vampire she knew was at the door to the rec center. He jumped in gratifying surprise when she let her shield drop just in front of him. "Good evening, Fred. Is Giles in?"

"Oh, uh, hi, uh, Miss Willow." Fred glanced over his shoulder into the rec center. "Yeah, uh, Ripper's in, but he's, well, a little busy."

"Busy as in 'don't bother me unless it's important' or busy as in 'I'm doing things I don't want you to know about'?"

"Um . . . yes?"

"So interrupting him wouldn't be a good idea."

"No," Fred said firmly. "It wouldn't."

Willow made a show of sighing. "Oh, well. Do you think I could sneak down to his library?" She pulled her shoulder bag around. "I'd like to return a couple of his books."

Fred blinked. "He lets you borrow books?"

"Only a few. And I promised I'd get them back as soon as I could. You know how he is about his books."

"Oh, god, yes, I know how he is about the books." He looked over his shoulder again. "I don't know, though . . ."

"What's the harm?"

The look she got reminded her she was talking to a vampire. "It's not very human friendly around here just now. I could take the books down for you."

"He entrusted them to me. If I'm the one who takes them back, then he'll know who to blame for any crumbs that might have gotten dropped."

She didn't know vampires could pale. "Crumbs in his books?" Fred stepped back quickly from the door. "Mind you hurry, though."

"Oh, I will. Thank you." Fred waved off her thanks.

There seemed to be fewer residents about the place than the last time Willow was here, but she heard faint whispers from shadows. The air had changed, too, with a strange floral scent overlaying the background smell that always said butcher shop to her.

The gymnasium was empty, and the big screen tv was dark. The flower boxes underneath the skylights were growing well, but something seemed odd about the flowers. She went over for a closer look. All the flowers had been ruthlessly cut back, except for some black tulips. The cut flowers had been stuck head down into the dirt, their severed stems pointing up.

"It is a willow when summer is over," whispered a female voice. Willow went cold. "A willow by the river from which no leaf has fallen nor bitten by the sun." The voice drifted nearer. "That's from another Poet William. But this lithe willow has been bitten by the sun, and has let her leaves fall."

Drusilla appeared behind her and peered over her shoulder at the flower box. "They hid their heads in the dirt. Everything hides its face in the dirt in the end." She rested a delicate hand on Willow's shoulder and pirouetted around to look into Willow's face.

"He--hello, Drusilla," Willow managed.

Humming, Drusilla ran her fingers up Willow's neck to her chin. "The foolish virgins let their lamps go out while they waited all the night. The wise virgins had oil left, but they wouldn't share with the foolish virgins. Selfish, cruel virgins." She drew a fingertip down Willow's nose. "Guard your lamp, little witch. You'll lose your way if it goes out, and you'll cry and cry because there will never be light in your lamp again."

"I'll take care of my lamp, I promise."

Drusilly tapped Willow's lips. "Wise little witch." She stepped back. "You must be very proud of her, my owl."

Rapid footsteps crossed the floor behind her, and Willow looked over her shoulder. "Willow, what are you doing here?" Giles said, but Willow could only blink for a moment.

This Giles was different. He wore a tight green t-shirt that did shocking things to his eyes. His hair looked like he'd had better things to do since he'd gotten out of bed than to tidy himself. And the form-fitting blue jeans were--form fitting. He looked a little dazed as he went to Drusilla, who leaned very affectionately against him.

Willow smiled cheerfully. "I hadn't heard either way, so I came by to see if we were having a magic lesson this weekend."

"Oh, a lesson. Is it time for that already?" He was distracted by Drusilla humming and running a fingernail down his chest, bunching up the t-shirt. He grinned and leaned down to kiss her. Willow wondered if she should avert her eyes. Giles pulled back a little, still gazing into Drusilla's eyes. "I don't think tonight's a good night for a lesson, Willow. We should probably skip this weekend."

His voice was different, too, rougher. Willow hid a shiver. "Should I call next week?"

Drusilla was running her fingers through his hair as he stared at her. "Hm? Call?"

Spike appeared from a side hallway. "Red? What the hell are you doing here?" He went to stand at Drusilla's other side, not-so-subtly putting himself between his Sire and Willow.

"I was just stopping by to see if Giles and I were having a magic lesson tonight."

Spike ran a hand along Drusilla's neck. "Not a good night, tonight. We're taking our Sire out for a drive tonight, going to look at the stars."

Willow shrugged. "Oh, well. It's a nice night for a drive. I'll call you later, Giles, make sure next week's good."

"Yes, yes, that's fine." Giles' wave was distracted.

He, Spike and Drusilla headed towards the garage. Willow started towards the hallway that lead to the outside door, then eased into a shadow and cast her misdirection shield. She stayed in the shadows for five minutes. A vampire went past without noticing her. She nodded and headed for the stairs down.

The door to Giles' workroom wasn't locked, but Willow opened it carefully. The lights were set to medium vampire bright, but she decided not to turn on any others. She closed the door behind herself and began looking around.

In the large empty portion of the room, three bubbling bowls rested inside a circle marked with runes and flickering candles. She recognized warding spells to keep things in and made sure to stay clear. There were papers on his desk, but she couldn't interpret the notes. Next to the notes was a book. What she could make out of the faded archaic Latin read "Pattern of Binding, Coercion, and Invocation." She sat down in Giles' desk chair to read.

The book was difficult to follow, both for the style of the Latin and for the complexity of the spells. For a moment she considered tucking the book into her shoulder bag, "borrowing" for real, but she'd already had one experience of Giles' reaction to unauthorized borrowing. Best to just read. And take some notes.

She reached one section that seemed clearer. "Asmodae . . . invicto . . . congre--"

Two of the bowls inside the circle sent up sparks, making her jump. She slammed the book closed and watched the bowls anxiously. The sparks slowly subsided, but the colors of the liquids in the bowls had changed slightly.

Willow put the book down very cautiously, making sure to line it up with the papers the way it was before. Carefully she did a very small test spell that checked for disembodied spirits or extra-planar visitors, and she sighed in relief when it came back negative.

Time to go. She reset her shielding spell and crept out of the workroom. No one spotted her as she made her way out of the rec center. Halfway out of the sub-division, she heard running feet and screaming. Two girls were being chased by several of the resident vampires, but the vampires were obviously in it as much for the thrill of the hunt as for dinner.

"Obscuro," she whispered, waving a hand at the two girls. The vampires shouted and swore when their prey disappeared from sight. "Direction."

One of the girls grabbed the other's wrist. "This way!" They changed course and sprinted towards the border of the subdivision and the lights of occupied Sunnydale.

Willow stood still as the vampires spread out to find the girls, making sure they all looked in the opposite direction. Once a Scooby, always a Scooby. She finally headed herself out of the area.

A shadowy grove of dead trees near the edge of the subdivision caught her attention for just a moment. She caught a whiff of magic, but it was faint and smelled of plants and earth. Possibly some sort of tree that could be useful in spells. She'd come back in daytime to double-check, it was time to get back.

As she disappeared up the street, the shadows among the trees folded back. Tara stepped out, resting a hand on the trunk of a maple sapling. She looked around the area, then followed slowly after Willow.


	9. Chapter 9

Quentin Travers replaced the phone receiver quietly, then stared at the desktop for several moments.

The Council guardsmen, who were sorting various supplies in the other part of Travers' hotel room, looked at each other.

"What did HQ have to say, sir?" one of them finally asked.

Travers tapped his fingers on the desk. "There will be no reinforcements. We're on our own."

"No reinforcements? Sir, don't they know what we're looking at here?"

"They know, Allenby. But they're not convinced that it merits a Watcher strike team to deal with. There's a definite sense of 'It's your hobbyhorse, Travers, you ride it' going on."

Another of the guards put down the crossbow he was assembling. "The leadership of the Order of Aurelius is not a hobbyhorse, sir."

Travers smiled slightly. "Thank you, Gregson. Though others are not convinced that my concern is much more than a personal obsession."

Allenby opened the case that held the flasks of holy water and scanned the contents. "So what does this mean for our operation?"

Travers looked over his men. "It's the same as it was, if you're still willing. The Slayer is out of town. We attack."

The men looked between themselves, eventually nodding. Allenby looked at Travers. "What's our target, sir? Sunrise Grove or Crawford Street? I don't think we have sufficient manpower for both."

Travers nodded. "Fleur du Mal is a tempting target. Her plan, though, is to confront William the Bloody. If we remove William the Bloody, we remove her reason to remain here. Old, powerful vampires should not be in the vicinity of the Hellmouth. Our target is Sunrise Grove."

"Very good, sir."

Jenkins unpacked bundles of crossbow bolts and began distributing them. "Who's the primary target, sir? William the Bloody or Rupert Giles?"

Travers fetched the glass with the rest of his whiskey. "Rupert Giles."

The men nodded silently and did not look surprised. Gregson checked the crossbow strings for wear. "Angelus may object to an attack on his spawn."

The other paused in their work to look at their leader.

Travers checked his inside jacket pocket for his two hide-out vials of holy water. "He may well interfere. If he does, we kill him."

* * *

Angel reached to knock on the door twice before he trusted himself not to just knock it down. Not that it would help, but his frustration management skills were still lacking.

He was raising his fist to knock again when the approaching scent warned him. He tried to look pleasant instead of outraged.

Xander opened the door and froze. "Oh, hell, no." He slammed the door closed. Angel managed to just rattle the door with his next knock. "You make me fix that door again, Deadboy, and you'll be wearing bits of it!"

"I want to talk to you, Xander."

"I don't want to talk to you!"

"I've got no problem yelling at you through the door. I'm sure your neighbors won't mind."

There were rustling, thumping noises inside, and Angel heard Xander mutter, "Why the hell don't I have a crossbow!"

"Talk to me, and I'll go away."

"If I ignore you, you'll go away, too!"

"I wouldn't put money on that. I can out-stubborn Cordy."

There was a pause, then the door opened partway. "You can?" Xander said, looking through the gap.

Angel sighed. "Well, no. But I'm able to glare back at her for nearly an hour, now."

"That sounds more likely." The door started to close, then stopped. Xander stared at him. "These visions she gets. They hurt her, don't they."

Angel looked away and managed not to growl. "Yes." Damn the Powers, he understood why they didn't want the visions dying with Doyle, but why would they force Cordy to keep them? Why did they have to hurt so much? And damn the Oracles for getting themselves killed, he probably could have worked out some sort of deal . . .

Xander wasn't standing in the doorway anymore, but the door wasn't closed. Angel looked in and saw Xander pulling on a jacket.

"What are you doing?"

Xander went over to a worktable, pulled something out of a drawer, and put it in his jacket pocket. "You are not and never will be welcome in any home I have control over," he said, coming to the door. He studied Angel. "But you care about Cordy. That buys you a hearing. But not here."

He came out of his apartment, crowding Angel back to the far side of the hallway. He locked his front door and headed down the hall.

"Now what?" Angel protested.

Xander looked over his shoulder. "If you want to talk, talk on patrol."

Angel followed.

Halfway across the municipal softball field, Xander finally showed interest in conversation. "So what was so important that you had to track me down?"

Angel had been thinking of what he should bring up first. "When did Spike get the chip out?"

Xander looked surprised. "Some time early last spring, I think. Giles helped him figure it out."

Angel nodded. "If anyone could, he could. How wide a swathe have they cut through town?"

"They lay pretty low, actually. Buffy says more vamps cut and run when they see her instead of challenging her."

"He's teaching them strategy. That's not good. They're going to take over simply through attrition."

"Yeah, they're good."

Angel studied Xander for a moment. "You hate me, right?"

"Yes, I do."

"Why?"

Xander stopped to turn and stare. "Why? Are you really asking me that?"

"You didn't use to. You didn't like me, but you didn't hate me."

"Then you killed somebody I liked, tortured Giles, broke Buffy's heart--and then you got away with it. And if you tell me that it wasn't you, that it was your evil twin who did all those bad things, I will stake you, and I won't tell anybody what happened to you."

Angel would have been more impressed and less worried if he'd told anyone where he was going tonight.

"It doesn't excuse me," he finally said, "but it does make a difference, the soul. It's like being drunk. People do things they'd never do when they're sober."

"Good analogy," Xander said tightly. "Being drunk just gives people an excuse to do what they only think of doing when they're sober. They're always the person capable of doing the rotten things. You are always the person who could think of leaving a dead woman in the bed of the man who loved her."

Angel could only nod. "Yes, I am."

Xander stepped closer, a hand in his jacket pocket. "You want to know a secret? When Buffy went in to stop you and Acathla, Willow was back at the hospital trying to pin your soul back on the donkey. They sent me to tell Buffy to hold you off long enough for the spell to work." He smiled. "I told her to kick your ass. I didn't tell her about the spell."

It was hard to remember that fight. Angelus' evil delight, followed by the joy of seeing Buffy, followed by a hundred years of . . . Things were blurry, but he knew one thing. "Thank God you didn't tell her."

"Huh?"

"She'd have held back, and I would have killed her." He shook his head at the thought of regaining his soul to find Buffy's blood on his hands--or his fangs.

Xander looked offended. "That's not why I did it. I did it so she'd kill you."

"I'm sure you did." He looked Xander in the eyes. "You have every right to hate me. So what makes Spike so different?" He waited for the boy to stop blinking. "He kidnapped you and Willow, played mindgames on all of you, tried to kill Buffy more than once. What makes him so different?"

"He stayed."

"What?"

Xander sneered. "You ran out on Buffy, broke her heart and left her."

Angel couldn't help sneering just a little himself. "You would rather I had stayed?"

Xander waved a hand. "Your big determination to stay out of her life hasn't kept you from skulking around. Spike's got no reason to stay. He's free of the chip, he could go anywhere, do anything. And he stays and helps. Without him we'd never have beaten Glory. Explain that one, Deadboy."

"He's playing you. That's what he does."

"Yeah, that explains why he got between Glory's minions and Dawn and got tortured for his trouble."

"So he likes the girl. You may have noticed he does stupid things for the people he cares about."

"Plus there's the whole lack of the blood and carnage that was promised for the day the chip came out."

Angel reached out and twitched Xander's collar where it was covering the bandage on his neck. "There's some blood and carnage. So tell me, are you consciously using yourself as a sacrifice to keep Spike away from the others? Or are you just taking advantage of his interest?"

Xander took a couple of deep breaths. "That's none of your business. Now if you don't mind, I've got a town to help look after."

"Xander, you have to listen to me--"

"Why! Why do I have to listen to you! I've never liked you, you've never liked me, so what the fuck do you care?"

"Because I know what Spike is like, and I know what he does, and that's what I do, try to save people from the vampires." He looked at Xander's neck again. "You going to tell me you don't need saved?"

Xander reached up to touch the bandage on his neck. He looked thoughtful for several moments, then met Angel's eyes. "Whether I do or not, you're not going to be the one to do it."

"You're going to put your soul and your life at risk just because you don't like me?"

"Yeah, pretty much." He started to leave, then turned. "If you're so worried about what Spike's up to, why are you bothering me? Take him out, and the problem's solved."

It was a question Angel had been dancing around himself. Remove Spike, remove the problem. No more thorn in his side, no more threat to Sunnydale and Buffy's people. Fleur du Mal would probably fold her tents and head back to the courts of the vampiric elders. It wasn't as if he had any doubts about his ability to beat Spike.

Nearly.

The Spike who ran around shooting his mouth off, with half-assed plans and jumping in without thinking, that Spike he had no doubts about. Hot pokers and Mozart notwithstanding. This Spike, though, was showing signs of discretion and forethought. Maybe it was the effect of the time with the chip, maybe it was the influence of Rupert Giles. Either way, taking on a Spike in the fullness of his power was not something Angel was going to do without some careful planning.

"If I have to," he finally said, "I will do it. It needs to be done."

"Then you go do that," Xander said. "And stop worrying about me."

He did walk away then, and Angel noticed uneasily that he was headed in the rough direction of Sunrise Grove. This time Angel decided to follow.

---

The SUV full of frat boys made the mistake of honking and laughing when they blew past the convertible on the two-lane road out in the desert. Giles put the pedal down, and Drusilla laughed in delight in Spike's arms as the BMW quickly caught up with the SUV. The frat boys pulled off onto the shoulder. When Giles stopped the car in front of them, the frat boys tumbled out of their vehicle, shouting and cursing. Soon they were screaming, and there was more than enough to go around for the three vampires.

Spike proceeded to search the bodies and the SVU for valuables. Drusilla painted bloody smiles on the dead frat boys, and Giles found himself gazing contentedly at his Sire. She had come back for him. All right, she'd come back for Spike, too, but she'd looked at him and said she was pleased with him.

She looked up from her play and saw him watching, and she gracefully rose.

"They taste all cinnamony when they're young and silly," she said, running a bloody fingertip along Giles' lips.

"Yes, they do."

"Oi, Dru!" Spike called from the SUV. "Listen to what one of these wankers had tucked in the back of his CD case!" The sound of Marlene Dietrich came from the vehicle's speakers.

Drusilla laughed and pirouetted, then leaned against Giles' chest. "Dance with me, sweet."

Startled, Giles looked at Spike, who was still digging through potential loot, singing along to the CD and taking swigs from a bottle he found in the vehicle. Drusilla started humming, and Giles took her hand in his and pulled her close for a waltz.

_"Falling in love again  
Never wanted to  
What am I to do?  
I can't help it"_

Drusilla leaned her head against his chest as he sang.

"Sire?" he said softly.

"Yes, my owl?"

"Why didn't you simply kill me?"

She smiled up at him. "You sing. The darkness in you sing. Such a lovely song."

Over at the SUV, Spike broke into song along with Marlene _"Love's always been my game/Play it as I may/I was born that way/I can't help it."_

Giles smiled. "He has a very nice voice when he isn't shrieking along with someone who has a safety pin through his eyebrow."

Drusilla chuckled and leaned her head against him again.

The little Before voice inside him still wept occasionally at the chaos and carnage. He still woke from dreams of Buffy's cries of fear and despair and the taste of her blood on his tongue. Those dreams filled him with horror and glee. He loved the feeling of power, though, the strength, the joy of wreaking terror on the weak.

He hadn't expected the love. Drusilla could walk out on him and Spike at any moment, but while she was here he reveled in her approval and the knowledge that she had chosen him. To be curled up at her side, with Spike a solid--if restless--third, was to be part of a strong unit of safety and belonging. The legendary pairing of Spike and Drusilla had already fractured in the crucible of the Hellmouth, and Giles wondered if somehow his presence helped them be together again. He chuckled as he pictured himself as a rather outre pet for the two vampires so much his senior.

Spike wandered over, shoving cash and credit cards into his coat pockets and taking swigs from a bottle of vodka. "What are spoiled youth coming to, these days? Only one bottle of booze in the car, and not a bit of drugs. Disappointing." He held the bottle out to Giles in invitation.

"No, thank you," Giles said, not wanting to remove his arms from around Drusilla. "I'm quite content with what I have."

Spike laughed as he leaned down to kiss Drusilla's hair. "Did you know he was such a sweet talker, princess?"

"Oh, yes," she purred. "The pretty bird just needed to crack his shell." She tapped Giles' nose. "But the pretty bird must learn how to share."

"If you insist," Giles sighed. He twirled Drusilla into Spike's arms and received the vodka bottle in return.

Spike dipped Drusilla until she could drop her arm back over her head to brush the desert ground. "Do you remember Berlin, princess? Marlene on the Victrola and the planes overhead?"

"And the stars weeping blood and violets." She looked up at the night sky and laughed. Then the laughter faded, and she began to whimper.

Spike pulled her up quickly. "Dru? What is it?"

Giles dropped the vodka bottle and hurried over to brush Drusilla's hair back. "What is it, darling?"

"It hurts." Drusilla pressed her hand to her breast. "Hurts."

"Is it a vision?" Giles asked Spike, who nodded.

"What do you see, pretty?" Spike asked, stroking Drusilla's cheek. "What hurts?"

"The eyes, the watching eyes . . . Daddy!" She hid her face in Spike's chest.

"Angel," Spike growled.

Giles felt his fangs appear. "He's going to hurt her."

Drusilla whimpered again. "The eyes . . . owl's eyes . . ."

Spike frowned. "Owl's eyes? You're the only one she calls owl, mate."

Giles shook his head. "Owl's eyes, watching eyes--" He snarled. "The Watchers. I was a Watcher, my eyes."

"Angel and the Watchers?" Spike bent his head to Drusilla's. "Is that it, precious? Angel and the Watchers are going to do something?" She only tried to snuggle in closer, and one hand reached out towards Giles, who took it and let her pull him close.

"But would he cooperate with them?"

"He's hurt her before," Spike said grimly. "And I'm sure they all agree that you and I and Dru and the others are a threat Sunnyhell could do without. He'd make deals with the devil, Angel would, for his fucking cause. A better question is, would the Watchers cooperate with him?"

"To further their own quest? Yes. Though they'll be aiming for him when they're done."

"Excuse me while I feel sorry for him. Dru love, do you know when they're going to move? Is it soon?" She nodded. "We'd best get back, then."

Drusilla's head snapped up. "No, mouse, no. Mustn't go back."

"What?" Spike stroked her hair away from her face. "Princess, why mustn't we go back?"

Her shoulders hunched and her arms came up to cross over her chest. "Oh, it hurts . . . Daddy, please . . ."

Giles stepped closer to put his arms around her. "We can deal with darling Daddy, beloved. He won't hurt you."

Her hair flew as she shook her head. "No . . ."

"Oh, sweetheart." Spike joined Giles in wrapping his arms around Drusilla so tight she could no longer rock back and forth. "We've got you, love, your boys have got you. We won't let anyone hurt you, that's why you have us, right? To keep you tight and safe." He looked up at Giles in worried frustration as Drusilla started to cry. His own eyes twisted to yellow. "That bastard's the only one who could ever make her cry."

"Not Daddy . . ." Drusilla whispered from between them.

"We should go find him," Giles said, having trouble enunciating because of the rage.

"Yes, we should."

---

After twelve attempts, Wesley decided Angel was either in the tunnels out of reach or he had turned off his phone. Aside from Willy's bar, the primary place of demonic business and information was the magic shop Giles had formerly owned.

"You just want to go poking around someplace with weird shit," Gunn said when Wesley suggested going to the Magic Box.

"There is that," Wesley agreed. "But we could overhear something interesting."

In the end, they did go to the shop. Surprisingly, it was mostly humans in the establishment. There were two actual demons, but they were occupying corners and studying merchandise and not attracting attention to themselves. The proprietor, a young woman, was busy at the counter with three young men and a half-wrapped package.

"It is very clearly stated right here," the woman said, tapping a sign taped to the cash register. "The Magic Box has a no return policy. Especially on damaged merchandise."

"But it didn't work!" the shortest of the trio protested. "It wouldn't obey our commands!"

"Of course it didn't work!" She reached into the package and pulled out a dried severed human hand by its little finger. "Which one of you brushed off the loose skin?"

The trio looked between each other guiltily. "It was--shedding," the oldest one said.

"It's a four-thousand-year-old mummy's hand, of course it was shedding. If you're going to conjure with body parts, you have to put up with some bits of skin laying about."

The blond waved his hand in the air. "We deserve a refund."

The woman put her hands on her hips and glared. "I've seen the movies, nitwit. I used to live with a man who could quote them backwards and forwards. Don't try the fake Jedi stuff on me."

"But, Anya--"

Wesley headed for the books, followed by a snickering Gunn.

"I suppose we should be just as grateful that they couldn't get it to work," Wesley said as he scanned titles.

"Why would you go to all the trouble of getting an old hand to do something you could do yourself?"

"Well, most practitioners I've heard of use mummy hands to open books that will kill whomever touches them or to handle particularly toxic spell ingredients." Wesley paused to consider the trio of young men, who were gathered in front of a glass case. "I am curious as to what they were up to, now that I think of it."

Gunn nudged his arm. "We've got enough to worry about, don't you think? Save the three weird men for after we get the vampire civil war straightened out."

"Oh, I don't think we can call it a civil war. It's still just an inter-clan squabble--"

"I thought I heard an English accent."

Wesley and Gunn turned to see the store proprietor standing near them and glaring at them. Wesley blinked at her. "Excuse me?"

She started to speak, then frowned at Wesley. "I've seen you somewhere."

Wesley studied her back. "And I've seen you. Something to do with a library."

Gunn snorted. "Like that narrows anything down."

Wesley snapped his fingers. "The Mayor's Ascension. You're the woman who had seen an Ascension. Anya."

"And you're the scrawny, uptight Watcher."

"Former Watcher, thank you very much."

Anya stepped closer. "Whatever you are, I'm tired of you English types coming in and bothering my customers. Go harass Buffy and leave honest, hardworking shopkeepers alone."

"We're not harassing your customers, lady," Gunn said. "We just got here. And I'm no English type."

"Oh, right, you just got here. So who's been creeping around this town upsetting everyone who's going about their own demonic business?"

"That would be the real Watchers, most like. They've got a real mad-on about your local vamps."

Worry replaced some of the annoyance on Anya's face. "Buffy told them about Giles, didn't she."

Wesley sighed. "I think they figured out most of it on their own. Surely you didn't think they wouldn't notice."

"There are ways." She gave them one last dark look. "Just leave my customers alone." She went back to her counter.

Gunn shook his head. "One high-strung lady."

"She always struck me as so. I wonder if it's because she used to be a demon."

"Excuse me?"

Wesley managed to sound blase. "This is the Hellmouth, Charles. One gets used to these sorts of things." He laughed when Gunn smacked him in the arm.

The bell over the door chimed as two more people came in. Wesley and Gunn turned their faces back to the books.

Anya gave a welcoming, "please spend your money here" smile as the new arrivals came up to the counter. "How can I help you buy something today?"

One of the men glanced at his list. "We need some hellebore and some asfoetada, miss." The man had an English accent.

Anya hesitated, but not for long. "Powdered or whole?"

"Whole, please."

"My god," Wesley whispered.

"What?" Gunn asked.

"It may be nothing--"

Anya put two jars on the counter and reached for a measuring scoop. "Will there be anything else with this?"

The man looked over the list again. "I think we could use more sulphur."

Wesley grabbed Gunn's arm and pulled him towards the front door. Gunn waited till they were out of the store, but once they were on the sidewalk, he yanked his arm free. "I'm really looking forward to the explanation for that one, Wes."

"Those ingredients those men were getting, I recognized them."

Gunn looked at him pointedly.

"They're part of a Watcher spell particularly geared towards vampires. I think they've come close to recreating Greek Fire. But it only has a limited shelf life, so if they're gathering the components they must be planning to make their move very soon. Possibly tonight." Wesley looked up and down the street.

"Uh, Wes . . ."

"We need to figure out who they're moving on--"

"English."

"Yes, Gunn?"

Gunn pulled Wesley into the shadows. "You're thinking the Watchers are making their move, either on the nest up on Crawford Street or on this Giles and the others."

"Yes."

"And you're thinking of interfering."

Wesley hesitated. "I don't trust the Watchers."

Gunn put his hands on Wesley's shoulders. "So what? They're going after vampires. Nasty ones, by what I've heard. Both sets."

"Yes, but--"

"Or did you want to stake your old buddy yourself?"

Wesley closed his eyes, and he didn't fight Gunn's hug. "I know we can't leave Giles like that. So much kinder to the man he was to kill the thing he is. But . . ."

"I know, man," Gunn said softly.

"How did you do it, Charles? Your own sister?"

"Because I loved her. I couldn't let that thing behind her eyes make a mockery of her."

Wesley let his arms come up and wrap around Gunn. "I'm really very bad at this job, aren't I."

"Nah, Wes. You just think too much." He pulled back and grinned. "Such men are dangerous."

Wesley laughed. "So did you pick up your knowledge of Shakespeare from a DVD or from reading?"

"Cordy, actually. She was going off on one of her tirades and started talking about her Freshman English teacher making them read Julius Caesar. I think she was talking about you."

The Magic Box's door opening interruped Wesley's rejoinder. The two Watchers came out and paused on the sidewalk; Wesley and Gunn pulled farther into the shadows.

"We have the holy water at the hotel," one of them said, "and Jenkins always has an ash wand with him, so we have something to stir with. That's everything, right?"

The second one patted his pocket. "With the dust from that vampire we staked earlier, yes. Would it be gauche, do you think, to try and collect the dust from a vampire who used to be a Watcher?"

The first one glared at him. "Well, I'm appalled, so I'm going to say, yes, it would be gauche. Come along, Mr. Travers is waiting."

Wesley closed his eyes again. Rupert Giles was gone, he knew that. They couldn't possibly just leave him alone to go along his path of death and damnation. But to hear his destruction discussed so casually--as casually as Wesley himself had ever gleefully anticipated going forth against the forces of evil . . .

Gunn's hand fell on his shoulder again. "It's always different when you know 'em, man. Doesn't matter what, it's different when it's one of your own."

Wesley nodded. "And knowing them doesn't change the fact that they're creatures committing evil every night and that it's our job to stop them." He started towards the car again, then paused. "Should we warn Angel?"

Gunn frowned. "Tell him that his demonic kids have an assault team headed in on them? My gut says No." He shook his head. "But I don't want to be the one to give him the news later, either."

"Nor I. I'm not sure what he would do if we told him."

"You think he'd try to interfere?"

"I think . . ." Wesley pulled out his phone. "I think I don't want to make that decision for him. Better his crisis of indecision than him being furious with us for withholding the information. I just hope I can get hold of him."

Gunn nodded. "And that he's nowhere near Sunrise Grove."

---

Angel was still pretending that Xander didn't know he was being followed when Angel's cellphone rang again.

Twenty feet ahead, Xander paused in brushing vampire dust off his shirt to glare in Angel's direction. "Are you going to answer it this time?"

"How can you hear that?" Angel protested. "I turned it down." The smirk he got was just another in a long line of annoying smirks.

"I have younger ears than you do. Just answer it."

Angel hesitated, then pulled out the tiny phone. "It's just Wes. He can leave a message." He really hated that smirk he was getting.

"Just Wes? Your main research guy keeps calling you during prime patrol hours, and you want him to just leave a message?"

Just a little smacking around. Just enough to teach him a little respect. Angel glared at the ringing phone in his hand and at all the tiny identical buttons. Hell, it had been bad enough learning how many times to turn the crank so you'd get the operator at Central Exchange--

Xander came up and snatched the phone out of Angel's hand. He glanced at the buttons, pushed one, then held it up to his ear. "Deadboy's Sanctuary for the Technically Clueless, this is Xander."

"Xander?" came the tiny startled voice. "Why on earth are you answering Angel's phone?" The voice became a lot more of the Scary!Wes that had appeared in recent months. "Why do you have Angel's phone?"

Angel grabbed the thing back. "What is it, Wes?"

"Why--never mind. Gunn and I were at the Magic Box just now, two of the Watchers came in to get ingredients for the Hellebore Tincture. Angel, they're moving tonight. I think they're going to Sunrise Grove."

Angel stared at the night, trying not to think. "Is that what you've been calling me about?"

"Actually, no. Charles and I had a visit this afternoon with Quentin Travers. He seems to have made an anti-Aurelian crusade part of his life's work, and he's very delighted to have so many of the clan within reach. Your name came up on his wish list."

"Sounds like he's got other fish to fry tonight. I just have to stay away from Sunrise Grove."

Angel saw Xander quickly turn to stare at him.

Wesley took a deep breath. "What do you want us to do about this?"

Angel opened his mouth twice before he was able to speak. "We do nothing."

"Angel, are you sure?"

"They're doing their jobs, Wesley. We've got no reason to get in their way."

"Travers mentioned your name, Angel. He would be pleased to get you in his sights."

"Then I just stay out of them. I don't plan to be anywhere near Sunrise Grove while Quentin Travers is hunting." Really, it was easier that way.

Xander came over quickly. "What's happening at Sunrise Grove?"

Angel turned away. "Not now, Xander."

Xander snatched the phone out of Angel's hand. "What's happening at Sunrise Grove, Wes?"

"Xander?" Wesley said.

"Wesley, what's going on?" Xander pointed a finger at Angel. "Back off." Angel hesitated out of pure shock.

Wesley focused on the moment. "Quentin Travers is taking an assault team into Sunrise Grove. They're making their move."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now, tonight."

Xander threw the phone back at Angel, who snatched it out of the air and managed not to crush the thing.

"Where are you going?" Angel demanded as Xander headed off.

"Angel, what's going on?" came Wesley's thin voice from the phone.

"I'm not sure," Angel said. "You and Gunn stay put, stay out of this." He didn't wait to hear Wesley's reply as he pushed buttons at random till the phone went quiet. "Xander!"

Xander kept walking--directly, Angel saw, towards Sunrise Grove. Angel didn't bother yelling again. The stubborn Scoobie was never going to listen to him anyway. He ran after and grabbed Xander's arm--then barely jumped back in time as Xander spun, a stake in his hand and aimed at Angel's chest.

"Let me guess," Xander said with a nasty grin, "you didn't take me seriously when I told you to stop getting grabby because I knew where there was a stake within arm's reach."

"Look, Xander--"

"I made this one years ago, especially for you. Splintery pine. I soak it in holy water on a regular basis. It'd probably hurt like hell even if it didn't dust you."

Angel decided to stay out of reach for now. He'd accepted that Xander didn't like him--to be honest, Angel couldn't blame him--but to know the boy had created a stake just for him . . .

There were more important things to worry about now, though. "Xander, what are you doing? Why do you care what's happening at Sunrise Grove?"

"You already said you weren't going to concern yourself over what happened tonight. Do what you told Wes to do, just stay out of this."

Angel knew this look on Xander's face, the kind of devil-take-the-hindmost determination that had brought a scared teenager to face down a monster and demand that the monster prove its worth. "The Watchers can take care of themselves, they've gone after lots of nests of vampires. They'll be all right. And--" Angel swallowed hard and fought down his demonic urges "--and it's for the best."

"It's for the best that Travers and his cronies run an assault on Giles and Spike and all the others?"

"It needs to be done. Did you think the Watchers are just going to let Giles be?"

Xander licked his lips. "No. I know they won't. But I also know that I just can't sit by and let it happen."

"It's not really Giles, anymore," Angel said gently. "Nobody blames you for not wanting to see someone you cared about--dealt with."

"Angel, this has nothing to do with Giles!"

The boy was more than angry, he was scared. This was exactly like the night Buffy went up against the Master, when Xander was hellbent on doing something to intervene. But if it wasn't for Giles-- He looked at the bandage on Xander's neck again. "You're worried about Spike."

Xander started walking away again. "You said this didn't concern you, Deadboy. So just drop it."

Angel got in front of Xander, but he was careful not to grab him. "What does Spike have on you that you have to go help him?"

"It's not like that. Get out of my way."

"You've hunted vampires for years, Xander. Why do you want to help them now?"

Xander stopped and glared, then took a deep breath. "I owe him."

"Who, Spike? Xander, no one owes him anything but death. They're out killing every night. They need to be stopped."

"I'm not talking about humanity owing him anything. I, Alexander LaVelle Harris, owe him, William the Bloody, a debt. He backed me up at the convent last spring. He tried to save me from some of the things I did. I owe him a life, and I intend to pay him back."

Angel could only blink for a moment. "You really are the White Knight."

Xander started to speak, then just waved a hand and started away.

"You may believe you owe him," Angel called after him, "but do you really plan to get between him and the Watchers?"

"I don't know," Xander yelled back. "Maybe all I can do is warn him, but at least I'm going to do that much!"

He should stop the idiot boy. Grab him, drag him somewhere safe, and lock him down until morning made everything academic, one way or another. If nothing else, it would give Angel something to focus on other than the demon inside him screaming to go to his children's aid. Or he could just leave Xander to his fate: walking into the line of fire between the monsters and the monster hunters, just so Angel could avoid the temptaton to help the wrong side. Yeah, that would go over well, him telling everyone, "I let Xander walk into trouble so I could find a hole to hide in while the side I'm supposed to be on attacked the side that the worst part of me still longs to be on."

If nothing else, he could protect the idiot, brave kid. Sancho Panza to Don Quixote. One of the two of them was crazy, anyway.

He followed.

Part of Xander's mind kept telling him, "You kill the vampires, remember? The Watchers are the good guys, right?" The part of his mind that was listening even agreed--mostly. It was that old generalities vs. specifics problem again: Vampires on the whole were bad, but sometimes you'd rather let certain individuals live. And while the idea of the Watchers was a good one, there were a lot of specific Watchers who simply gave you the wiggins. Xander might not be on Spike's side, but he sure as hell wasn't on Quentin Travers' side, either.

Really, when it came to choosing up sides, he wasn't looking to play Red Rover with Spike's team. That wasn't why he was running through the trees on the border of Sunrise Grove. But there was at the very least one Harris in the world who understood the concept of honor, and Xander knew in his gut that he owed a debt to Spike. It wasn't just the convent, either. That night in the cemetery, Spike treated Xander as more than just another container for a hot meal. It probably wasn't the kind of thing you'd find on an inspirational poster, but Spike thought there was a reason for Xander to stay in the world, and that had been enough to pull him back from the brink. He wasn't going to be like Deadboy and lurk around in the shadows and hope the Watchers would resolve his moral conflict for him.

The roads in Sunrise Grove were quiet. The construction worker in Xander twitched at the abandoned, half-built houses. Tire tracks led the way in through to the finished, lit building in the center of the development. Xander hesitated, looking over the situation with his faded soldier memories.

"They have guards," Angel said softly at his shoulder.

"Jesus! Dammit, Deadboy--" He glared at the vampire. "I thought you were going to stay out of this."

"Like I'm going to tell Buffy I just let you walk straight in to 'Yojimbo.'"

"Into what?"

Angel smiled slightly. "It's a movie. You'd like it."

Agreeable Angel was way too disconcerting for Xander to deal with just then. "So where are these guards?"

"I'll show you."

They strolled right up to the front door. Xander wasn't sure if he was working off the chutzpah of having an old vampire at his back--and when did that stop being wiggins-worthy?--or if he was simply off in that magical land of What The Hell? He remembered this feeling: there was a Thing that needed done, and there were steps that had to be taken, no matter how bizarre.

Which meant he stared the startled, full-fanged vampire at the door in the eye and said, "I need to see Spike."

"Uh--what?"

"Me. Spike. See. Talk to."

The vampire stared at Xander, then blinked at Angel, who was just standing a few feet behind and looking glowery. "I don't know--he was here before--"

And meet the Mayor of the land of What The Hell. Xander grabbed the vampire's shirt and yanked him close. "I don't give a fuck what you know! Get out of my way!" He shoved the vampire out of the way.

Behind him, as he headed into the building, he heard the vampire sputter. "He can't do that!"

"He's a White Knight on a mission," Angel said. "Best to just stay out of his way."

"Spike!" Xander yelled as he ran through the hallway. The place looked a lot like the old high school, painted cinder block walls, linoleum floors, crashbar doors. Even the faint foul smell in the back of his throat didn't detract from the similarities. He yanked open the double doors at the end of the hallway and looked around the big gym-floored room beyond. "Spike!"

"Hello, kitten."

He turned to see Drusilla in the double doors, holding them open with a light finger on each. She smiled, but it was terribly sad. "Where's Spike? I need to warn him."

"You, with vampire dust in your clothes, came to him, with blood on his fangs." She stepped in and let the doors close behind her. "Chevalier sans peur et sans reproche." She floated up to him and rested a cold finger against his lips. "White knight, look after my black knight. He wears his heart on his sleeve, where it gets bashed about so terribly." Her finger drifted down to the bandage on his neck. Her smile twisted. "Is your poem in your blood, I wonder?"

Xander stepped back very carefully. "Drusilla, that night with the poem and with you smacking around Angel on my behalf--which I'm very grateful for, by the way--that was just the spell, wasn't it?"

Some of her hair fell over her eyes when she tilted her head and laughed.

"Oh, what the fuck now!" yelled Spike as he stomped into the gym. "This is not a home for wayward Scoobies! Harris, what the fuck are you doing here!"

Xander pulled his eyes away from Drusilla. "The Watchers are coming. They're coming after you guys."

"And they're bringing the big guns," said Angel, appearing out of nowhere again.

"Angel," Spike snarled, the vampire face in full view. Giles appeared from a side hallway, snarling without words. Angel didn't move away from the door.

"There's no time for this," Xander snapped. "Wes called Angel and said the Watchers were putting together an assault for tonight."

Spike forced himself to turn to Xander, though his yellow eyes kept sliding back towards Angel. "And I'm supposed to believe that a Scoobie came down here to warn the vampires about the Watchers."

Drusilla hummed and put a finger between Xander's eyes. "He's not warning vampires. He's warning you."

The frightening yellow eyes faded to puzzled blue. "Me?"

Xander jerked away from Drusilla. "Never mind that, you've got the Watchers to worry about!"

Giles stepped closer. "How does Wes know what they're doing?"

Angel, still watching the room very closely, cleared his throat. "He saw a couple at the Magic Box, getting the ingredients for the Hellbore Tincture."

"Dear God!" Giles gasped.

"What's that?" Spike asked.

"It's a very sure way of killing vampires," said Quentin Travers, standing in a doorway with his men around him, pointing crossbows.

There were suddenly a lot more vampires in the room. Xander saw several appear out of the shadows of other hallways. Spike and Giles moved to put Drusilla behind them, and Spike shoved Xander to the side.

Travers focused on Xander. "I am very disappointed, Mr. Harris. Do the others know where your true loyalties lie?"

Xander straightened from where he'd stumbled against the wall. "Yeah, they know. And none of them would be surprised to find out that my loyalties aren't with you."

Travers looked honestly upset. "But why? The lines are clear, humans vs. monsters. You have gone to great lengths to protect humanity, why would you warn these?"

Xander looked at Spike, who he saw was looking back in turn. The faint, knowing smile Xander had seen during that night at the convent had returned. What did these Watchers know of how things happened in the real world?

He looked back at Travers. "Out of curiosity," he said, "how many apocalypses have you averted?"

Travers drew himself up. "The Council has too often been the only thing standing between the world and utter destruction."

Xander shrugged. "Maybe. You had a lot of Slayer help there. But what I meant, Mr. Travers, was how many have you, yourself, helped stopped? How many times has it been your blood and sweat and terror on the line?" He began counting on his fingers. "Glory, the Master--" He glared over his shoulder at Angel. "You."

Angel fidgeted and looked away.

Xander looked at Spike. "Does Adam count as an apocalypse?"

Spike shook his head. "More just buggering annoying when all was said and done."

"The Judge," Giles offered helpfully.

Xander blinked. Times really had changed if Giles was joining in on the 'annoy the authority figures' fun and games. Then again, he was going by the name Ripper, these days, and Xander had heard all kinds of stories about the Band Candy incident. "Yeah, the Judge." He added a glare at Spike. "And we all know whose fault that was, don't we."

Drusilla leaned against Spike and stuck her tongue out at Xander. "He was my present from my Spike, he was. Nasty spitty kitten." She swiped a clawed hand in his direction. Xander blinked and wondered if he'd sound hysterical if he laughed. Sharing Tales of the Hellmouth with Drusilla was not something he'd ever expected to do.

"Does all this blather have a point?" Travers asked coldly.

Xander shook his head and sighed. "Yes, I warned them, Mr. Travers. It just kind of seems fair, after some of them have helped me save the world and all."

"They're monsters, Harris."

He looked at Spike, who smirked. "Yeah, they are. But they've still been on my side more often than you folks have."

Travers jerked back in offense, and he looked at his men, who brought their weapons in tighter.

Angel leaned closer. "You have to get out of here, Xander, this is going to get very bad."

"Yeah." Xander looked around for the best exit. "You leaving with me, or have you decided whose side you're coming down on?"

Angel's indecision was interrupted by Giles' clearing his throat. "I find it interesting, Quentin, that you held off on this little expedition until after Buffy was out of town. Might one assume she knows nothing of this?"

Travers' lip curled. "We thought to spare Miss Summers' feelings by dealing with this matter when she didn't have to be involved."

Giles sighed and nodded. "For what it's worth, that is considerate of you. You'll let Xander leave, of course."

"Of course," Travers said easily.

Xander frowned. Maybe it was that British noblesse oblige thing, but Travers seemed a little too comfortable with the idea of him leaving the scene of the smackdown. Still, it was stupid not to take advantage of the situation. "You coming?" he asked Angel.

Angel took a moment before answering, studying both the vampires' side and the Watchers. He obviously found as much to dislike about the situation as Xander did. "Yeah, let's go."

"The agreement," Travers said easily, "was for Mr. Harris to leave. Not Angelus."

Xander jumped a little at the not-so-faint growl he heard behind him. "One of these days," Angel said in a particular scary voice Xander would have been much more than happy never to hear again, "I just may take great pleasure in showing you the difference between Angel and Angelus. Because you have no idea."

"You really don't," Xander added.

"There is no relevant difference," Travers said. "You are a vampire. A proper Watcher makes no exceptions."

Giles snorted. "That was a lie even before Angel was turned. Which, if you've read the same Watchers' journals I have, Quentin, you surely know."

Travers was looking just a bit fanatical. "I did say 'proper' Watcher."

"As much as I've regretted the situation over the years," Giles said, "I can't imagine that Buffy agreed that you should--how did you put it--'deal with' Angel the same way you plan to deal with me."

"She's a Slayer, she'll understand."

"Yeah, right," Xander said.

Travers frowned at him. "Mr. Harris, you have no business here. Go."

He wanted no part of this. He saw one of the Watcher-fighters behind Travers open a ceramic jar and stir the contents with the tip of a crossbow bolt. The metal edge of the bolt tip came out covered with a dull-orange powder that glowed and smoked. On the far side of Giles, the vampires--the other vampires were all in full fangs and yellow eyes as they snarled and waited for the signal.

It just wanted the wrong twitch on somebody's part to start the carnage, just like that night at the convent. They expected him to turn and walk away and ignore the sounds of killing he knew were going to break out behind him. He could put names to faces on both sides, too many of those faces on what was supposed to be the wrong side.

"I can't," he whispered.

"You must," Giles said with the faint smile Xander had seen too many times in the old library and the Magic Box. "This is no fight for the honorable and forthright."

Spike flicked Xander a smile between unholy snarls of battle glee. "And thank you for the warning, mate. I appreciate the effort." He glanced at Angel. "Get him out of here, you."

"Angelus is not leaving," Travers snapped.

"What the hell makes you think you get to decide?" Xander demanded. The leveled crossbows made a worthy argument, but he'd had crossbows pointed at him before. "And if I decide to grab Deadboy and drag him out of here anyway? Who do you plan to shoot at then?"

"Xander," Angel said, "don't. Just get out of here."

"I don't even like him, and you're making me take his side!"

Travers frowned. "So you do admit you're taking the side of the vampires."

Xander closed his eyes and debated screaming. Light fingertips on his face made him open his eyes.

"Don't cry, kitten," Drusilla crooned. "The mean old man will go away soon."

Xander blinked at her and wondered when he'd become so interesting to her.

"Get away from him, witch!" Travers shouted.

She glared at Angel. "And Daddy makes everybody cry in the end."

"Hey!" Angel protested. "That is not true!"

Spike reached out to her. "Dru, come here, behind me."

Drusilla kissed Xander's forehead and turned, then paused to glare at Travers. "You are a mean old man," she said, pointing a graceful finger at him. "You will come to no good end."

Travers pulled back. "Keep your curses to yourself, you unnatural creature!"

The man next to him, in a victory of loyalty over sense, raised his crossbow and fired.

"Oh . . ." Drusilla raised a hand up to the crossbow bolt protruding from her breast. She stretched out her other hand towards Angel. "Daddy . . ."

Angel's and Spike's hands touched within an expanding cloud of dust.

"Oh, my god," Xander whispered.

Giles lost all his words and pretensions of humanity in a flash of fang and growls. The other vampires howled in anger.

Spike was gone into the demon as well, but he was holding on to language, even as he grabbed Angel's coat. "Get him out of here," he snarled.

"Spike--"

"You're not stopping this, Angel! Get Harris out of here!"

They stared at each other, then Angel whirled and grabbed Xander's arm. Xander hesitated just long enough to see Giles and Spike and the others charge towards the Watchers before he had to run or risk being dragged away. The thwap of crossbows going off mixed with snarling.

The demonic howls followed them as they ran from the recreation center. Higher pitched human screams could be heard in the lulls.

Angel let go of him, and Xander stumbled to a halt against a pile of abandoned roofing shingles in front of one of the abandoned houses. He turned and stared back towards the recreation center. "Shouldn't we do something?"

With a snarl, Angel ripped a sapling out of the ground and threw it through the remains of a window of the house across the street. Xander couldn't keep back a yelp of surprise, which he managed to strangle when he saw the face that turned towards him. Call him Deadboy, laugh at his hair, snicker with Spike back in the Basement of Doom over tales of "the poof"--but never forget that the name Angelus still made demons shudder and that the instincts and urges of the Scourge of Europe were only reined in, not removed.

"How dare they!" Angel shouted. "They had no right!"

"Uh . . . I thought you tried to kill her yourself not too long ago."

Angel took two long strides across the dirt and weeds of the proto-lawn and kicked down the corner post that held up the garage roof.

"She was mine! I created her! The only hands with the right to destroy her are mine!" He turned to glare back towards the recreation center, twisted lips pulled back from the fangs and yellow eyes almost glowing in the dark. "Stupid mortals who think they have the right . . ." The rest was thankfully lost to snarls.

Xander tried his best to remain frozen and not catch Angel's eye. He felt the weight of his stake in his coat pocket, and there was a cross in the pocket of his jeans. Maybe Buffy would have a prayer of getting through to the not-so-homicidal guy behind the demon, but Xander figured he was currently well inside the "stupid mortals" category and it was best if he just tried to think of ways of getting out of there.

He had just taken a cautious step away from the pile of building supplies when Angel abruptly slumped and fell to his knees in the dirt. "I should have stopped them," he whispered.

"Which them?" Xander finally asked.

"All of them. Spike, Dru, Giles--I could have stopped them, I shouldn't have just let them be. And I should have known the Watchers would try something suicidal. I should have . . ."

"OK, that's just crazy talk. Like you could have made Travers do anything other than fling a piece of wood into you somewhere. As for Spike and them--"

"Xander . . ." Angel's fingers were digging into the hard dirt. "Go away."

Part of him, maybe that white Knight part everyone kept talking about, said that Angel shouldn't be left alone. The creak of the sagging garage roof, though, reminded him that he had no business hanging around a rampaging vampire. He took a step back, watching the kneeling figure, then turned and ran for home.

Xander woke up from yet another nightmare of screaming men and dissolving faces. He thought briefly about the beers in the refrigerator, but all they would do for him is make him unable to wake up when Drusilla's face morphed into Jesse's and the scared voice said "Xander" instead of "Daddy."

He didn't bother turning on any lights as he got out of bed and wandered into the living room. A clock said it was after 3 in the morning. At least there weren't any new lights blinking on his answering machine. He'd cycled through four messages from Wesley when he made it home and caught another one just after he finished clearing the machine. He'd told Wes and Gunn what had happened and refused their offer to go with them as they went out to try and find Angel.

If he didn't hear back from them in the morning, he'd have to call them. Because he knew who was going to be the poor doofus who got to tell Buffy all about it when she got home.

He headed back into the bedroom and over to the sliding glass balcony door. He slid it and the screen open and stepped out, trusting the hour and his sleep pants to keep the neighbors from getting over-excited.

"You're supposed to be asleep."

Only Xander's throat seizing up kept him from shrieking like a little girl. The bare skin of his shoulders stung from where he slammed back against the weathered door of the balcony storage room.

The pile of black leather and misery at the other end of the balcony barely stirred. Spike dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

After a good three minutes, Xander's muscles obeyed him again. He debated diving back inside behind the vampire-proof barrier, but instead he slowly lowered himself to the rough green outdoor carpeting and pulled his knees up.

Spike's face was cut and bloody; the coat had slices and holes and dried patches that flaked off to leave dark red bits on Xander's balcony. He didn't seem to take up a whole lot of room there against the wall.

"Giles?" Xander finally asked.

"Made it." Spike slowly blinked but he didn't look at Xander. "He took a nasty burn to the side when he went for the one who shot--but he'll make it."

"And the Watchers?"

"The head git was the only one who made it out. His blokes shoved him out the back door and took long enough dying to keep us from following."

Xander couldn't identify who he felt relieved for. He knew what his gut wanted to say, though it had to be all kinds of wrong. "I'm sorry about Drusilla."

A hiccupping sob almost escaped Spike's control, and he closed his eyes again.

"What made you come here?"

"Wanted someplace quiet."

Xander nodded. "Yeah, quiet's good."

Several surreptitious eye wipes later, Spike looked at Xander. "She wanted us to take her away tonight. She saw something out in the desert. Me and Ripper, though, we insisted on coming back. We brought her back to be killed." He slammed his arm through several balcony railing uprights. "And she called out for him!" He buried his face in his arms.

The evil undead were not supposed to grieve. And Scoobies were not suppoed to be moved to comfort them. Xander stayed put, his chin on his knees, watching the man grieving for his lover and thinking about Kendra dead in the library.

"This balcony faces east," he said after a long while.

Blue eyes raised just above the level of the leather clad arms to stare at him, then turned to study the eastern skyline. "So it does."

"I--don't know what you're thinking, but--if you haven't decided by the time the sun comes up and you're still here--this closet behind me is pretty sunproof. Just ask the mushrooms."

He got blinked at for his answer. He eventually just nodded and got to his feet. After confirming that the storage closet was unlocked, he went back inside and closed the doors behind him. He closed the curtains and went back to bed, ignoring the quiet, painful howl outside.


End file.
